


Soft Like Summer Rain

by Fitzrove



Series: Wyoming [1]
Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Bisexual Morse, Cowboy Jakes, Cuddling, Dancing, Domestic Fluff, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Lots of it, M/M, Morse is a disaster, Multi, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Pretty much canon-compliant outside of those months, Reunion, Riding, Romance, Set in the summer of 1968, Smoking, Stargazing, basically a huge pile of fluff, eventual polyamory, going to Wyoming for the summer, past relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-20
Updated: 2019-05-22
Packaged: 2020-03-08 15:44:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 51,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18897688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fitzrove/pseuds/Fitzrove
Summary: Morse musters up the courage to go visit Peter in Wyoming for a couple of months over the summer, despite the doubts and heartbreak his old almost-flame's sudden move away left behind.It doesn't turn out quite as painful as Morse thought it would. In fact, it ends up being pretty lovely, and along the way, he finds some things he didn't even know he needed.





	1. The River's Just A River

_May 1968_

The station was calm, at least calmer than it had been in a while, but Morse was so restless he could hardly stand it.

It wasn’t as if people stopped committing crimes as the warmer, although still a bit rainy, weather rolled around. They very much didn’t. Morse was grateful for the opportunity (excuse) to spend a lot of time holed up at the station, even though many others seemed to be eager to get shorter shifts to catch some sun when they finally could. After all, it was very clearly late spring now, and the gentle gusts of wind often carried the scent of an opening flower with them.

Quite a lot of people at the nick - Strange included - were trying to get as much free time as they could, if only by stretching their superiors’ leniency a bit. Morse was more than happy to take on some of the things they should’ve technically been doing. It wasn’t like him to be particularly devoted to cleaning up other people’s messes, at least not without growing bitter about it, but when he could actually solve crimes almost completely on his own and actually _help_ the victims’ families by burying himself in his work, he was more than happy to do it.

It also gave him an opportunity to stay at the station until it was nearly dark outside, rather than go back to his flat in the early afternoon and stare at a bloody wall for several hours before moving over to his bed and staring at the ceiling until dawn broke.

A couple of times he even stayed the night, relieving a poor soul or two from their graveyard shift. It wasn’t as if he could escape the thoughts running through his head any better when he was almost-slumped against his desk rather than lying in bed, but at least he could pretend that he wasn’t thinking so much. And when he was exhausted enough, when he’d simply used his brain for so long without giving it a break, it short-circuited and gave him a couple of hours of blissful emptiness. Sometimes, that was the closest thing to happiness he could get.

And it was fine, really. Or at least would’ve been, had it not been for Thursday.

“Morse”, the inspector said, as they were walking back to the car from yet another crime scene. There had been a body in the river, like there so often was, but DeBryn hadn’t been quite able to tell if it was murder yet. He’d said he’d need to take a closer look.

“Sir?” Morse said.

“Are you alright?” Thursday asked.

Morse frowned, trying not to show his frustration openly. He was tired, even though he desperately didn’t want to be, and snapping at Thursday was going to be a dead giveaway. He didn’t want to be put on light duties again. There was no doubt he could’ve managed to find himself something to do from dusk till dawn, anyway, but it would’ve been considerably more suspicious to be that fervently enthusiastic about _paperwork._ He already had a reputation for getting invested in cases, and escaping into interesting work like that was considered far less odd.

Then again, everybody already thought he was an odd person, It was just a matter of keeping his oddness the same it always was.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Morse said. “It’s just a body. I’m not made of glass.”

Thursday let out a sigh, adjusting the brim of his hat to not let the sun shine into his eyes quite as badly. Morse had enough trouble keeping his eyes open as he was, so he didn’t bother trying to look away from the light, instead just squinting like a bloody idiot. Very professional. He did try to avoid Thursday’s eyes, to avoid seeing the probable disappointment on his face.

“That’s not what I meant, lad”, Thursday said. “You’ve gone through an awful lot of things. The tiger and the bank.”

There was a heavy pause after that, one that was clearly meant for Joan. Morse couldn’t help but feel his heart clench at the worry flashing across Thursday’s face. It was the same worry that Morse had tucked deep inside his chest, and which was now gnawing away at him every time he closed his eyes. The gang, the gunshots, the people that were now dead.

He knew he hadn’t _completely_ failed, not with the tiger, at least, but his brain still frequently offered nighttime repeats of everything that could’ve gone wrong. Familiar faces unmoving and lifeless, looking past him from the ground. Sometimes it wasn’t actual events, just a blur of panic and his father’s voice telling him what a bloody disappointment he was. After a couple of nights like that, it had been easier to just not sleep.

“What I meant to say is”, Thursday said, “that you should probably consider taking a proper holiday. Get out of Oxford for a bit, clear your head. The summer’s coming.”

Morse sighed, rubbing at his eyes. This wasn’t a conversation he was capable of having right now. (On the other hand, he would’ve rather not carried any kind of conversation, especially one pertaining to his well-being. He didn’t like thinking about it.)

“I’m fine”, he said, walking around the car to get to the driver’s seat. “Thanks for the idea, though.”

Thursday frowned, but didn’t press on. Morse was grateful for it.

He still ended up being sent home very early that day, well before three o’clock. It was unusual, even for a Friday. Thursday said he didn’t want to look at his sharpest detective wilting like that (his words), and told him to get some sleep, or at least a bit of _rest_ if he could manage it.

It didn’t feel particularly restful to fumble with his keys at the door and make his way to his flat, already feeling like a drunkard even though he hadn’t had anything that day. He couldn’t do much of anything except throw his bag to the floor, before slumping in a chair and trying not to fall asleep immediately. He’d need to make himself some tea, for starters, even if he didn’t have the energy to eat anything. He just needed a moment first.

There was some mail for him, just bills and some sort of advert about vacuum cleaners. Right - he probably should get some cleaning done, at some point in his life. That weekend seemed too early, though.

Morse let out a frustrated sigh, letting the mail fall on the table, where a towering pile had been steadily building up for some time now. He’d tried to throw some things out, every once in a while, but as the pile got bigger, he’d just sort of given up.

The whole pile toppled over. Morse lifted a hand to rub at his forehead, too tired to even hiss out a curse. He’d need to clean it up, if he wanted to keep an ounce of his dignity. Might as well sort through it at the same time.

He made himself a cup of very bitter tea, just to make sure he wouldn’t completely fall asleep, before scooping up the letters that had fallen to the floor and putting them back on the table.

Sorting through the mail wasn’t as difficult as he’d first feared. It became an automated task, after the first few. Bills, adverts, adverts, bills, some sort of invitation to a place Morse had never heard of (probably addressed to the person who’d lived in the flat before him), a letter from Peter -

Bloody hell. The letter from Peter. Morse had received two of them, now, if he remembered right (and God, he hoped he did), and he had a sudden urge to find the other one before it was too late. If he’d been that careless about one of them, putting it back in that pile even after he’d read it, who knew where the other one was? He had to find it.

Morse looked through the now considerably less towering pile first, and found nothing, all the while keeping the one letter he had in his hand, to not lose it again. He then scrambled up from the chair, to think of anyplace else he might’ve put it, and the search became a frenzied one-man flurry through his flat.

He eventually found the first one tucked away in the bottom of a drawer. It was as unwrinkled and smooth as the day it had arrived, even though the stamps on the envelope had faded a bit, and Morse let out a sigh of relief.

As Morse made his way back to the table, he shoved the remaining mail to the floor to make room for his elbows. He’d probably found everything that needed his attention anyway, by now, and the rest didn’t matter. That wasn’t a particularly good attitude when performing a murder investigation, but it was fair enough when it was about his mail.

He decided to go about them chronologically, just to humour himself. After all, he’d read them both already, and hadn’t sent a good enough response to either.

The first one had arrived in late August - the date on the top-right corner of the letter said August 10, but it must’ve taken some time for it to arrive in Oxford. It wasn’t exactly a surprise, since it had had to cross both half a continent and the Atlantic Ocean to get to him. Peter’s jagged handwriting was surprisingly easy to read, probably because the letter hadn’t been scrawled as carelessly, in a hurry, as Morse knew Peter often handled paperwork. The thought of Peter actually stopping to think as he wrote to him made him smile, albeit through a strange, strained feeling in his throat.

_Dear Morse,_

_So sorry for not writing earlier, but we only got back from our honeymoon last week. It was a blast! The nature here is absolutely bonkers, and I wish I could’ve sent you pictures of all the things we saw. Hope got a good laugh out of how new everything was to me - she tells me it’s all completely normal - but you do agree with me on the fact that cows aren’t supposed to be bloody huge and hairy, right? (I just read that last sentence aloud to Hope to prove a point, and she said they’re called bisons instead of Hairy Cows for a reason.)_

That’s how the letter started, and it went on for two full pages. Must’ve taken quite a while to put together, with how uninterested Peter was in the literary arts, and Morse appreciated it immensely.

What stung more than hearing about how happy Peter was with his wife - it was a good thing, of course, Morse desperately wanted him to be happy, because at least _he_ was capable of it - was the way the letter ended. It was drawn-out, almost like Peter didn’t want to stop writing it, though it might’ve also been wishful thinking on Morse’s part. The very end was curt enough.

_Hope wishes you well, and so do I. I hope everything’s been going alright in Oxford._

_Please write back soon!_

_Sincerely,_

_your friend Peter Jakes_

There was a newspaper clipping in the envelope as well. Morse almost didn’t want to look at it, but he _had_ to, since Peter had thought it was important to let him have it.

And even if Morse didn’t particularly want to admit it, he was desperate to hold it in his hand carefully like a piece of evidence, to touch something that Peter had touched, to prove to himself that he’d once been real. That maybe how Morse had felt had been real back then, too.

_Hope Jolene Rogers and Peter Jakes were married June 25, 1967, at St. Paul’s Church in Laramie._

That’s how the announcement started, and there it was again, the photo of them smiling and leaning against each other, Hope holding a bouquet of daisies, the veil falling over her russet hair like fresh snow. Morse treasured the look he got at Peter’s heartbreakingly sharp face, his lips curved into a _genuine smile_ , his eyes crinkled.

He wished there’d been more time. Not to say goodbye, because Morse honestly loathed goodbyes, but more time to just… be. To keep things as they were, since they had finally started to work, after the mess they’d been through the year before. The thought still stung just as badly as it had the first day he’d spent without Peter.

He would’ve been more than happy to just have his friendship, honestly. Morse could’ve lived with Peter having a girl - he’d done it before, after all, although it hadn’t been particularly pleasant - but it was entirely different to lose him like that, have him leave for good to go live across the world from him.

Morse folded the letter carefully, putting it back in the envelope with the clipping and vowing to himself to not lose it again.

The other letter, which had spent several months buried under that huge pile, was about a daughter being born. Cheryl Hope Jakes, on January 5, 1968. The letter had been written about two weeks later. There was a suspicious little blot on the paper, and even though Morse wasn’t sure, it looked an awful lot like a teardrop. He wasn’t sure if it was his, from when he’d first read the letter, or if it had come all the way from Wyoming, from Peter to him. Or maybe it was just a piece of rain.

There was no photo this time, but Morse could just about see how happy Peter must’ve been when penning it down. It was in every curve and line of the words he’d written.

_I hope you had a Merry Christmas, and a Happy New Year, and a good end of the year in general. I got your letter in November, but we had Thanksgiving, and after that there was a ginourmos snowstorm (hope I spelled that right), and it wasn’t long after that cleared up that our Cheryl was born._

_Both her and Hope are doing well, and I think I’m getting used to the feeling of having a kid. I mean, it’s definitely hard to think of myself as a father, but I love Cheryl, and I’m actually pretty alright with waking up to her screaming at this point. She’s tiny, Morse, and she doesn’t know anything about the world yet. We’ve got a good chance of making it a good place for her to grow up in. Or, at least, start with this ranch in the middle of nowhere._

_The first thing her grandmother said about her when she saw her was that she has my eyebrows, and Hope practically started wheezing. I don’t know if that’s a good thing or not, but Hope’s assured me that she loves us and our eyebrows very much. I think I’ll be able to live with that._

_I’ve thought about you a lot, and wondered how you were doing. I definitely hope someone fed you up a bit over the holidays._

Someone had. Morse had been at the station on Christmas Eve, and Thursday had insisted on him giving him a lift home, which had ended up being a clever plot to give Mrs Thursday the opportunity of giving Morse a whole Christmas pudding to take home. She’d looked like she’d wanted to invite him along for their dinner on the next day, but Morse had given her a reluctant smile to spare her the refusal. He’d intruded on their family enough as it was.

Morse still thanked her profusely, and the pudding ended up being really good, so he thanked her once more the next time he saw her. That made Mrs Thursday smile.

He’d seen Joyce over the holidays, and brought her a book. He wasn’t terribly sure of what she liked, but going for things that were a little less archaic than what he preferred seemed like a safe bet. The lady at the bookstore had been a great help.

Joyce had given him a nice pair of gloves.

“Cold hands, warm heart”, she’d said. “I’d say it’s better if both are warm, though.”

Morse had chuckled at that, and let his sister give him a hug. Half of his grudgingness to do so had been just out of habit. He’d actually quite liked that.

_Please write back as soon as you can! We’d love to hear from you. How’s everybody at the nick? What’s new on the opera front? I want to know!_

_Your friend,_

_Peter_

_P.S: Hope wanted to send you a couple lines, too._

There was a separate letter in the same envelope, addressed to an E. Morse. The handwriting on that one was more decorative, with some quirky flourishes and all, but it was still pretty easy on the eyes.

_Dear E. Morse,_

_please do call me Hope, even though I’ve addressed you in an awfully formal way. Somehow, your first name hasn’t ever come up in conversation, and when I’ve tried to ask about it, Peter just grins at me._

_I can’t thank you enough for the bonds you gave Cheryl. Honestly. I can’t put into words how much we appreciate it, so I’ll just say:_ _thank you_ _. My Peter is truly blessed to have such a good friend, and I wish I would’ve had a chance to meet you properly while I was in Oxford. He’s told me so much about you._

_Best wishes,_

_Hope_ ~~_Rogers_~~ _Jakes_

Morse put the letters back in their envelopes, put them away in a drawer where he was sure he’d find them again, and downed the rest of his cooled-down tea in one gulp.

He was a bit more awake now, and he wasn’t sure if it was because of the tea, or because his heart needed to actually start beating a steady rhythm in order to be achy and broken. He let out a long sigh, and with that, came the tears.

He’d been a terrible friend to Peter. Morse hadn’t responded at all to the latest letter, and the one he’d written before had been flimsy at best, all because he was too bloody bitter and jealous to be properly glad for Peter’s happiness. He was wishing for something he couldn’t have, something he’d _never_ had, and Hope and Peter were the ones who had to suffer for it. It wasn’t right, and Morse felt terrible, and _he wanted to talk to Peter and tell him he was sorry_. He needed to. It was the only thing he could do, and yet he hadn’t managed to write one word, not the simplest letter. He was a bloody difficult person to like, and he knew it.

After a while spent hunched over the table, tears soaking his sleeves, Morse wiped his face and drew in a long breath.

If he was getting this hysterical over a bloody _letter_ , maybe Thursday had some sense about him. He really needed some time off work, somewhere different, in a place where he could focus on something else. He couldn’t get Joan back to soothe both his own worries and the ones of her parents’, and he definitely couldn’t ever face Monica again, not even as a friend. She was smarter than that, and they both knew it.

But Peter was still out there, and he still wanted Morse’s friendship, even if he had a wife and a family now and didn’t want anything else anymore. And Morse had a phone number, it had been on the first letter, scrawled on the bottom of the last page as an almost-afterthought. The telephone was truly an amazing invention.

Even as he dialed the number and waited, the beeping sound doing nothing to calm his nerves, he wasn’t sure of what he was doing in the slightest. At least it wasn’t a terribly bad time to call, for Wyoming. Morse checked his watch, and it was nearly five o’clock. That meant it was noon.

After what felt like years, a woman’s voice answered.

“Magnolia Creek Farm, Hope R- Jakes speaking”, _Hope_ said. Peter’s wife. Morse felt his heart beat faster. He cleared his throat.

“It’s… uhm. This is Morse. From Oxford”, Morse said, and hoped he didn’t sound as stiff and awkward as he felt. “Is Peter home?”

There was a moment of stunned silence, probably Hope processing what she’d just heard. Morse waited, tapping his fingers against the table nervously.

“Oh my god!” Hope said. “It’s you. It’s _that_ Morse.”

Morse _definitely_ hadn’t expected that sort of excitement, but at least she wasn’t _cold_ to him.

Her voice was bright and sweet. She half-rolled the R in his name like Americans tended to do, and for a moment, he was a bit taken aback by that. But despite the accent, or maybe because of it, she sounded like the sort of woman who smiled a lot.

He would’ve hung up out of sheer terror if she’d been weirded out by him calling, and that would’ve probably ruined his chances of ever managing to write a letter to either of them once and for all.

“I’d say so, yes”, Morse said. “It’s, uh, nice to meet you… I mean, talk to you finally. I’d shake your hand if you were here.”

“That’s very gentlemanly of you”, Hope said, amused. “By the way, I love your accent. Didn’t really pick the easiest guy in that regard when I married Peter.”

Morse let out a slightly nervous chuckle, but relaxed a bit nonetheless.

“You sure didn’t”, Morse said. “But you get used to it.”

“Right”, Hope said. “You said you wanted to talk to him?”

“Ah, yes”, Morse said. “I’m terribly sorry for not responding to your letters. Thank you so much for the kind words. I’ve just been… wrapped up in my work, and -”

“Oh, sweetheart, don’t worry about it”, Hope said. “Pete’s missed you, though, I can tell. He’s going to be ecstatic when he hears who’s calling. I’ll get him for you, just wait a sec, alright?”

“Alright”, Morse said, and heard Hope put the phone on the table as she walked away in hurried steps. Then, there was a rather loud stage-whisper from across the room, so loud that Morse could hear it all the way to Oxford.

“Pete! It’s for you!”

A muffled response, probably from another room, but with the door open. Morse pressed the phone closer to his ear, just to see if he could make out Peter’s voice, if he could hear him speak for the first time in over a year.

“Of course it’s you, how many Peter Jakeses do you think are living in this house? Come on, up you get. I’ll take her.”

The sound of a very loud, grating wail echoed through the room, making Morse wince and pull away from the phone a bit. Then there were footsteps coming closer.

“Hello? Peter Jakes.”

Morse couldn’t do anything but stare at the wall in front of him, trying to blink the tears away from his eyes. He wasn’t ready for this. He had to be.

Peter let out a sigh at his stunned silence.

“Sorry about that”, he said. “It’s my daughter. She’s four months old. Awfully fussy.”

“Peter”, Morse choked out. “Peter, it’s me. Morse.”

There was a long pause, then a sharp gasp. Morse heard a giggle from the background - Hope must’ve stayed to watch how Peter would take it. Cheryl seemed to be quieting down, which was good - Morse really wasn’t particularly fond of the screaming.

“Morse!” Peter said. “I can’t believe - I’m so glad you called! Wotcha.”

Morse didn’t know whether he wanted to laugh or cry at that, so he did both, letting out something between an amused sob and a mournful snort.

“It’s been too long”, Morse said. “Thank you for the letters.”

“Thank _you_ for calling”, Peter said. “Jesus Christ. How are you?”

Morse hadn’t thought that far. He couldn’t exactly _lie_ , and he really didn’t have any particularly bright and warm truths to tell Peter, so he just let out a long sigh.

“I was thinking”, Morse said. “Would you like a farmhand for the summer?”

Morse couldn’t see or feel Peter’s smile, but he knew it was there.

They ended up talking for over an hour. Morse apologised multiple times for the immense phone bill, but Peter always brushed it off.

When Morse could no longer suppress the yawns that threatened to overtake him every so often, they agreed to speak again on Sunday, to go over the details a bit better.

“Better let you go to bed before you fall asleep where you stand”, Peter chuckled. “Good night, Morse. It was amazing to talk to you, honestly.”

“It was”, Morse said. “I mean… thank you. I feel the same.”

When Morse laid down the phone, for good, he knew he’d made the right choice. It was going to be painful, to see Peter again and remember what they could’ve had but simply _didn’t_ , but it was a pain Morse could handle. He just needed to _see him_ , to talk to him, to listen to him talk and look at the way he held a cigarette. For that, any heartache was worth enduring.

/ / /

“Mr Thursday, sir?”

“Oh, hello, Morse.”

“I’m so sorry for calling this early in the morning. I just… I was on the phone with DS Ja- with Peter Jakes, last night. I think I might go and visit him for the summer.”

Silence.

“That’s wonderful news, lad. I’ll talk to Mr Bright first thing on Monday, alright?”

“Thank you, sir.”

 

“Would you like to come over for lunch today, at one o’clock? Win would love to have you.”

“Sounds good, sir.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've already finished all the chapters as of two hours ago, but I have to edit them before posting. I'm super excited to finally get this fic out after working on it for over three months!!!
> 
> I appreciate each and every comment I get, so do leave them if you have the time and energy!!
> 
> Chapter title from On My Own (Les Misérables). The work title is from Jolene by Dolly Parton.


	2. Who Is In Your Heart Now?

_June 1968_

Brees Field Airport was very small. _Truly_ small. Morse had thought that finally getting out of a plane for good would’ve helped him not feel like he was suffocating, but as he made his way across the dusty airfield and to the terminal, he very much didn’t. The sun was high on the sky, and it hurt his head.

He’d spent the last fifteen hours either flying or dreading the moment he’d have to board a plane again, and overall, it hadn’t been a very pleasant experience. On the train to London, which had been almost a full day ago, he’d been able to try and calm his nerves, but that had probably been the last time since.

If only there'd been a way to take a Wagner record up into the air with him. Might’ve drowned everything else out in a more pleasant way than liquor did, maybe even helped him sleep a little.

He’d had the chance to try out multiple German beers when he’d had to change planes in Frankfurt, and they also served some drinks on the plane. He was good enough at making himself look sober and exhausted instead of pissed out of his brain, so he’d been able to charm his way into quite a stupor at one point. It hadn’t exactly _helped_ , feelings-wise, but it had helped him not pay as much attention to how bloody high they had to be. Good that he hadn’t been forced to take a window seat.

There had been another stopover in Denver, Colorado, but Morse didn’t really remember much of the airport he’d seen less than an hour ago. It probably wasn’t the drinks he’d had, at this point, but the headache and the bone-deep exhaustion that were threatening to make him nod off and collapse against the first wall he came across. He was tired of standing, and even more tired of sitting down.

But eventually, Morse did stumble out of the baggage area with his bags in tow. He let out a sigh in relief upon realising that they’d made their way to Wyoming in one piece.

The whole airport consisted of just a couple of rooms, and there weren’t that many passengers on his last flight, either, so it wasn’t as if he didn’t spot Peter the moment he stepped through the door.

Peter seemed taller than Morse remembered him to be, and he was wearing blue jeans. Rather _tight_ blue jeans at that, and they were tucked into a pair of what could only be described as cowboy boots. His shirt looked tame compared to that, and considering Morse knew what Peter looked like when he dressed up for the night (a V-neck cardigan and a polo shirt, lovely), it wasn’t all that frivolous. _Even though he was wearing a stetson_ , _too_. It was bloody _curious_ , very different, and Morse couldn’t stop staring as he walked over, drawing in a long breath.

He was there. He was really there. Peter wasn’t gone forever, hadn’t disappeared into some unattainable world of his own, but he was _really standing there_ , waiting for _Morse_ to show up. The last time they’d seen each other felt like a lifetime ago, and yet, Morse had so many memories coursing through his mind that he couldn’t make sense of any of them.

/ / /

Peter with a cigarette in hand, smoke getting everywhere. Peter standing in front of Morse’s desk at the station, the look on his face somehow both warm and condescending, the sort of smile that drove Morse crazy. Peter at a crime scene, pulling his coat tighter around him, or at the pub some night, eyeing Morse with curiosity even though he was having a laugh with the bloody court he’d managed to gather around himself out of some uniforms.

Peter in the pub, desperate and crying and drunk out of his mind, the time Morse hadn’t been able to help. The two seconds Morse had thought he was living in a world truly void of Peter, after the explosion, and the relief beyond measure when he’d emerged unscathed.

Peter sprawled out on Morse’s bed, tugging at his hair to get him even closer, to help them both forget whatever they’d had to put themselves through that day to see justice served. Peter at dusk, almost fallen asleep, with his hand unconsciously drifting close to Morse’s waist and staying there.

A dream Morse had once had when he’d gone to bed at four in the morning and woken up two hours later, of hearing Peter say he loved him. He’d woken up with his eyes wet, though it probably meant nothing.

/ / /

Peter looked up when Morse was almost there, and a smile lit up his pointy face as he took the last few steps and just straight-up grabbed Morse to wrap him into a tight hug. Morse had a feeling he was blushing beet-red at that, even though Peter seemed to realise what he was doing, stepping back and looking at him apologetically.

“Wotcha, Morse”, Peter said. “Been too long. Jesus.”

He shoved his hands in his pockets, but not before brushing a strand of curly dark hair away from his face.

Wait. Curly. Morse couldn’t help but stare at Peter for a moment, again, and try to make out what his hair looked like. It was difficult, with the hat on, and Peter seemed to notice why he was looking so puzzled. He gave Morse a sly grin.

“Peter”, Morse managed to say. “Sorry for the wait, I had to -”

“It’s okay”, Peter said. “I’m just… _hi._ Oh my God. It’s amazing to finally have you here.”

He offered his hand, and Morse shook it, even if it was a tad stiff and awkward after the hug. Morse was still rather happy about it, but also fascinated - Peter’s hands hadn’t ever been the smoothest, but now, there were definitely some new calluses. Farm work. It was odd to think about.

“Look”, Peter said, apparently unable to resist any longer, and pulled his hat off.

It confirmed what Morse had already thought. Peter’s hair was naturally curly, apparently, and it had grown out a bit. Not too much, or then it just looked different because of the style, but it was _nothing like what Morse was used to_. Peter’s sharp face was the same, but his hair _wasn’t_ slicked back, and the contrast made his heart ache with how fascinating it was.

Morse felt his fingers twitch at the urge to reach out and touch, to run his fingers though Peter’s hair and feel how soft it was. He didn’t. He couldn’t. Wasn’t allowed to, anymore.

“Can’t wear pomade. Melts right off my head in the sun”, Peter said. “So this is what’s come of it. Hope likes it, though, and I’m getting used to it too.”

“I can see why”, Morse said. Then he realised what his words implied, and shut his mouth before anything worse could slip out.

That _definitely_ wasn’t what he’d meant to say. It was too late to take it back now, so he just gave Peter an awkward smile. Luckily, Peter seemed unbothered, still smiling back at him.

“Was the flight alright?” Peter asked. Morse lifted a hand to rub at the back of his neck. Peter raised an eyebrow.

“I managed”, Morse said.

“Good”, Peter said. “How were the hostesses?”

Morse didn’t have the energy to deal with the innuendo behind Peter’s words, so he just let out a sigh.

“Polite”, Morse said. “At least for most of the flight from Germany. After the fifth time I stopped one to ask for a drink, she…”

Wait. Was he still a bit tipsy after all, or was he just a plain idiot? He really shouldn’t have been running his mouth like that, not when what he said made Peter frown deeply. The pounding at his skull might’ve been because of shame, or then it was just the remnants of the light and air pressure and the drinks seeping into his brain. He really was in a sorry state. It wasn’t what Peter deserved, and Morse was starting to feel _really_ bad about forcing him to endure a person like him for the whole summer. He’d spent a lot of time alone with Peter, sure, and they knew each other well enough by now, but they still hadn’t ever _lived together_. Morse was getting terrified of messing things up further than they already were.

“Morse?” Peter said. There was a careful hand on Morse’s shoulder. “Oi, mate. Are you awake?”

“It was alright. Really”, Morse said. It didn’t make Peter any less worried, but at least he let go of Morse again. Morse was afraid he would’ve grabbed Peter’s hand and lifted it to his cheek, otherwise.

“If you say so”, Peter said. Morse frowned, too, but didn’t say anything. He was better off keeping his mouth shut.

“How are you holding up otherwise?” Peter asked. “The bloody tiger. I still can’t believe you got yourself into a mess like that the minute I wasn’t there to keep you out of trouble.”

Morse flinched at the reminder. To be honest, he really wasn’t in the mood to talk about something like that. It still circled around his mind at odd hours, squirmed its way to his nightmares quite often. He’d been ready to die, in that moment.

Peter realised why Morse was grimacing, but before he had the chance to rush to apologise, Morse lifted his hand to shut him up.

“Fine”, Morse said. “Nothing happened. And I’m glad the case is over and done with.”

“Let that be the last time you get into a situation like that, alright?” Peter said. “For my sake. I almost got a bloody heart attack when you first told me.”

Morse nodded slowly. Peter sighed, looking at him like he wanted to say something else still, but eventually decided not to. Alright, then.

“Come on”, Peter said. “It's an hour and a half’s ride, so we better get going.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from a song with the same name by Studio Killers.
> 
> Making edits is driving me insane, since I use a text-to-speech to give myself a fresh set of eyes (ears??), but I'm trying to churn out as many chapters as I can at once to avoid spamming out the Endeavour tag XD So... please enjoy the ride!! And do leave comments, even if they're just excited yelling or something like that, I love reading those!


	3. Bittersweet Memories

They had to walk to the very back of the car park, not because the airport was terribly crowded - it was small and quiet, and nobody seemed terribly keen to be flying to Laramie in the early summer - but because, as Peter explained, it wasn’t very easy to make sharp turns or any particularly elegant moves with the car he was driving. Morse only realised why when they’d reached it.

The first thing he could describe it as was… _country_.

“It’s not _that_ bad”, Morse said. “It’s not a Jag, but…”

“Toyota Stout”, Peter said, taking Morse’s luggage to haul them to the back of the truck. Morse didn’t protest, as staying upright on his feet while squinting at the too-bright sun was difficult enough without trying to move his bags another inch. It did still feel a bit rude, but in all honesty, he was too tired to care.

(Especially since he found his eyes drifting to Peter’s arse as he carried the bags around the car. Bloody hell. Since when had it been even remotely proper to dress like that, with a belt fastened just right so that the jeans weren’t hanging off his waist, instead staying in place so firmly that he’d probably had trouble walking in them the first time he’d tried them on? Bloody _sodding_ hell.)

“It’s brand-new. Hope’s old man says it’s a wedding gift, but I’m pretty sure he just wanted a new one for himself. No offense to him, but people have bloody weird tastes around here”, Peter said.

Even though he wanted to be fair to the… culture of Peter’s new homeland, Morse could pretty quickly agree with that. It was coloured a light beige, which wasn’t all that bad considering the rather exotic models Morse had seen on their way through the car park, but the fact that it was a _pick-up truck_ really didn’t fit Peter’s sleek, sharp aesthetic. Then again, neither did his jeans.

“I can’t imagine anyone in Oxford driving that“, Morse said, walking around the car to open the door to its cab. “Wouldn’t really fit in on High Street. And with how narrow some of the streets are, I don’t -”

“Oi! Wrong side, mate”, Peter said. Morse stopped dead in his tracks and looked down at his hand before realising.

Right. Americans drove on the wrong side of the road, so everything was inverted. He knew that, but apparently, he’d forgotten. His face burned a bit, and Peter was laughing at him.

“Happens to me all the time”, Peter said. “But I’d like to drive, if you don’t mind. I’d rather not have you falling asleep at the wheel.”

“Probably best if you do that”, Morse muttered. The words Peter had left unsaid were hanging in the air between them - Morse wasn’t only tired, but the German beer and the whiskey had left a dull ache on the back of his head. He could only hope he’d be in better shape once they actually got to the farm. He didn’t want to make a terrible first impression.

“Just like old times, eh?” Peter asked, when they’d sat in the car and he was starting up the engine. “Only Thursday’s missing. And the scenery’s going to be very different.”

“And this still isn’t a black Jag”, Morse grumbled. Peter grinned at him through the driving mirror.

“I’m afraid you won’t find one around here even if you look”, Peter said. “Closest one’s probably in Denver. Or all the way in Minneapolis or someplace like that.”

“Which is…?” Morse asked.

“In the middle of another nowhere”, Peter said. “Don’t really know how far. Never been. It’s just a place people keep mentioning.”

“Fair enough”, Morse said. He couldn’t help but smile at the half-shrug Peter gave him.

It didn’t take them long to reach the motorway, but before they did, they passed some suburbs. Laramie wasn't a _big_ American city, that much could be said on its behalf, but it was still really different from how things were at home. It looked as if it could've very well served as the set to some Western film.

The landscape was strangely arid, with the occasional low pine forest and hills in the distance. Occasionally, rocks had been cut through to make way for the motorway, and Morse found himself staring at how red they were. The nature was odd. He wondered how long it had taken Peter to get used to it.

“So, how’s everyone at the nick?” Peter asked. Morse turned his face away from the window and drew in a short breath.

“Well, Strange's a detective sergeant, now”, Morse said. “Took up your old job.”

“And you're…?”

“Still a DC”, Morse said. There was no use skirting around the issue, so he might just blurt it out without mulling over it too much. It wouldn’t help, and even though he was frustrated, he could be civil when he talked about it. Or at least he could try.

“My exam paper _went missing_. And it was the only one out of them all to do so.”

Peter quickly looked at him with a frown on his face, before turning his eyes back to the road.

“That’s just stupid”, Peter said. “They should’ve given you a medal for the bloody tiger, if not everything else you’ve already done. Seriously.”

Morse stared at him, confused. He hadn’t ever realised Peter actually noticed what he did. Now that he thought of it, he _had_ , and they’d even started to respect each other after Morse had got out of prison.

“I suppose they don’t do that sort of thing”, Morse said softly. It was alright - he’d accepted it, and even if he hadn’t managed it all that well, he’d _tried_ to move on from the shame and disappointment. Peter was gripping the wheel a bit harder than he’d been before.

“They gave me one for not blowing up”, Peter said. “Jesus Christ. Leave it down to you to get yourself almost eaten by a big cat the moment I take my eyes off you for too long.”

Morse let out a dry laugh.

“Medal or not, I’m bloody grateful you’re still here”, Peter said, briefly taking one hand off the wheel to pat Morse on the arm. Morse gave him a smile at that, and something in that smile made Peter stare at him for a bit too long, his lips parted, and they almost missed a turn.

“Jesus, Peter!” Morse said. “Eyes on the road. This _is_ just like old times.”

“Sorry, sorry”, Peter said. He swallowed hard, contemplating something, and for a moment Morse wished he’d been easier to read.

“Me too”, Morse said. “I mean, for you. I mean… I’m happy to be here.”

Even though it was clumsy, it made Peter smile again, so it was absolutely worth it.

“Oh, I almost forgot”, Peter said. “We better turn the radio on when the connection’s still good. You can’t hear it that well on some parts of the road.”

“God”, Morse said. “I almost don’t want to find out what the music’s like in here.”

“I’m afraid you will”, Peter said, smirking. “It’s a part of the experience, Morse.”

Peter turned on the radio, and after about half a minute, Morse was pretty sure almost all country music was horrible. But at least Peter got a good laugh out of the grimace he made each time the radio host started talking. He had a very strong accent, and he was very passionate about the singers he was describing.

However, listening to the god-awful country drawl the man on the radio had in his voice was more relaxing than he’d imagined, and soon, Morse found himself drifting off to not-quite sleep. It wasn’t sleeping, honestly, more just… looking at Peter’s face as he drove (sitting on the _wrong side_ , still) and thinking about times gone by. Maybe it was sappy, but Morse couldn’t help it.

/ / /

It had been a Thursday night, with his grey windows slowly dotting over with clear rain. Not terribly heavy, but it was there.

Morse hadn’t had the energy to go to the grocer’s, so he’d just decided to live on toast for the rest of that day. It hadn’t killed him before, so it wouldn’t now, and it was as miserable a supper as he himself felt. Very fitting, in a way.

He’d put on a record to keep his mind quiet. Or at least _more_ quiet - there was no shutting it down, with how stressful the latest case had been, and with Jakes leaving _in a couple of days_. Morse probably wasn’t going to see him again after that.

He should’ve been happy. Peter definitely was, smiling wider than Morse had ever seen, actually being _kind_ to him the whole week. He definitely hadn’t expected Peter to help him move.

He’d been even more surprised when Peter had refused the drink he’d offered him, a drink which they both knew meant something very different. It was always that, a drink or a case or a _football match_ (once, when Jakes had wanted him to come over to his place rather than them going to Morse’s), but what actually happened was often a bit more heated than that. Something petty and ordinary became an almost-argument, and then Peter was stripping him down with furious grace and determination and pushing him down on the bed and kissing him, giving him a distraction, holding him close and letting Morse grab at the warmth of his skin, desperate and hungry.

But today, Peter had just agreed to do it next time (“maybe”), leaving Morse confused and hurt, even though he should’ve known better than that. He’d always known it had been a temporary arrangement, just workmates (who weren’t even mates) giving each other what they needed, but it had still left him worried. They were on the cusp of something _more_ , Morse could feel it, on the way from friendliness to _friendship_. There was something else, too, tapping at his brain, but Morse did his best to ignore it. It wasn’t reasonable to wish for something more permanent with _another man_ , but as usual, his bloody hopeful heart didn’t pay any heed to the warnings his brain was trying to send out.

Peter Jakes was an enigma, smoke and mirrors, in a way, and Morse had always been terribly fond of puzzles. It was his greatest strength, and it was his downfall. (He also trusted too much, thinking that every fling was a chance at love and every love was meant to last, but that was another matter altogether.)

When Morse had heard the reason Peter hadn’t stayed at his place for the night, later at Richardson’s, it hadn’t exactly _eased_ his worries.

Peter was getting married. Soon. With a girl he’d got pregnant. It was fine, really, it was completely fine. It wasn’t Peter’s fault that Morse had bloody burst into tears over his glass of scotch that night, and it was even less his fault that he couldn’t seem to stop.

Morse just wanted to keep his friend. Nothing deeper than that. If Peter could’ve stayed, that would’ve been enough.

Morse was drawn from the cloud of not-quite stormy, mellow thoughts by a knock at the door. He had no idea who’d want to visit him in this weather - hell, he didn’t really _have_ anyone who’d like to do so in any weather, not anymore. For some reason he thought of Monica, for just a while, even though that was just plain silly, when he’d picked out his new flat to be as far from her as he could manage. It was more for her than for him, to spare her from coming across him any more than was absolutely necessary. At least that was what he liked to tell himself.

He got up, remembering to set the half-empty glass of scotch on the table, and walked to the door. He pulled it open. Peter was standing there.

His coat was spotted with rain, even though he was holding a very wet umbrella. Must’ve left the car at the end of the street for some reason, or maybe it was windy outside - there was no way even Peter would’ve managed to get that much rain on himself otherwise, especially with the way he always fussed over his clothes and hair.

“Morse”, Peter said. “Can I come in for a second?”

He looked worried. The smile he’d worn at work these past few days, easy and carefree, had gone somewhere, leaving with the sun. It took Morse a second to realise that it was probably his fault.

Jesus. He hadn’t looked in the mirror before opening the door. His face was probably a sodding _mess_ , even though he’d stubbornly tried to avoid rubbing at his eyes awfully much. Peter would probably know he’d been crying.

Morse would’ve rather had him think his eyes were red and puffy from the rain, the beginnings of a nasty cold creeping up on him. Perhaps a gaunt figure was already looking over his shoulder - _metaphorically,_ Morse didn’t believe in those things - ready to finish him once and for all. If he was lucky, it’d be pneumonia. He would’ve been glad for it at this point, the chance to have the ground swallow him up at last.

“Morse?” Peter asked, looking even more worried than he had. Morse offered him an apologetic smile, though it failed to reach his eyes. They both noticed.

“Right”, Morse said, stepping aside. “Come in.”

 _What are you doing here_ , Morse would’ve rather said _. You’ve got a girl. Hold on to her_.

He didn’t want Peter to make a mistake, to do something irrational, to give up the life he was about to start. He didn’t want Peter to do something like that for his sake. Morse was better than that, even though a nagging voice at the back of his mind was telling him that maybe he would’ve been happier if he’d begged Peter to stay. He knew it was wrong, so even though it was painful, he was trying desperately to live and let live, to let go.

Parliament was currently arguing over whether it was even legal, to lov- to _be with_ another man. Morse simply wasn’t worth it, when Peter had a chance of happiness rising in the horizon. He’d just have to learn to accept that.

Peter shook off the umbrella before walking past him. Morse shut the door behind him, the clack ringing through the room and through his head. He wasn’t hungover, _yet_ , so it shouldn’t have pierced his ears the way it did.

“Fancy a drink?” Morse asked, as Peter was taking off his coat. If he was going to stay there for a while instead of bolting out the door the moment he realised Morse was still alive - scraping by, but alright, nothing to be worried about - he might as well take Morse up on the offer he’d made. Even a drink was just a drink, nowadays, with no secret promises between the lines.

“Yeah”, Peter said. “Scotch is fine.”

Morse poured him a glass, and refilled his own while he was at it. Peter frowned at how full Morse’s glass was, but didn’t say anything. Morse gave him a sharp look and a half-embarrassed shrug.

He was a grown man. He could handle it. They sat down at the table, and Morse was glad for the opportunity to get his glass off his hands. They felt like they were about to start shaking terribly.

He looked up at Peter, but had to avert his eyes when he saw how deeply furrowed his eyebrows were.

“It’s not the drink I’m here for, Morse”, Peter said, after a moment of tense silence. “You know that, don’t you?”

“What’s this about, then?” Morse asked.

“I’ve seen how you look at me”, Peter said. “How you look at the ground, actually, when you don’t want to look at me.”

Morse swallowed hard. This was precisely the question he’d hoped he wouldn’t ever have to tangle. There was no way to get out of it without saying something wrong, telling Peter something he didn’t mean, forgetting himself and making matters worse. He didn’t want that.

“You’re upset about me going”, Peter said, voice softer than before. “That it?”

Morse stared at him, his face numb, for a couple of seconds before finally nodding. He had to close his eyes for a moment to not let tears fall, but Peter probably heard them in the shuddering breath he took.

“Morse, _mate_. It’s nothing personal”, Peter said, stepping closer to put a wary hand on his shoulder. “It’s not about you. It’s just… this is what I’ve been hoping for, honest. A chance to get away and start over somewhere new.”

The words stung, even though Morse _knew_ they shouldn’t have, even though he should’ve been happy for Peter. They hadn’t ever talked about Blenheim Vale, not even when they’d been at their most lucid on the evenings they’d stolen, and Morse had a feeling it just wasn’t something that could be talked about. Words were few and far-between after their heartbeats had quieted down, anyway.

But Peter had once held him. One particularly difficult night, when Morse had dreamt of a masked murderer chasing after his mother under the Bodleian, Peter had stayed with him until five in the morning. He’d calmed him down, with his steady - albeit a bit raspy - breathing and his sleepy hands and the way he’d actually snuggled up to Morse, muttering something that sounded a lot like ‘sleep now, maredream later‘. Morse had been too exhausted to laugh out loud, but it had been bizarre enough to get his mind off his fears.

Peter had still caught the morning bus to his own flat to have sufficient time to get ready before his shift. They hadn’t talked about it after. Morse still didn’t know what had driven him to do so. It had been quite a while ago, when they were still rivals at work and not-quite-something-else outside of it.

“Morse?”

Morse tried his best to look not-bleak. That was the least he could do, and at this point, the only thing he was capable of.

“Peter, you don’t have to apologise for finding something to… something worth living for”, Morse said quietly, swallowing around the tightness in his throat. “I’m happy for you.”

Peter didn’t believe him, and Morse hated himself for it.

“Listen”, Peter said, stepping closer. Morse almost wanted to flinch back, just to be petty, but he ended up being too weak to do so in the end. Even though he didn’t want to think of the moment as a goodbye, he knew he’d never get that close to Peter again. He was selfish, and he wanted the opportunity, just for that night, for the last time.

“What we had”, Peter said (Morse looked at him with wide eyes, not believing that _now_ was the time he was addressing it out loud), “was…”

“A mistake”, Morse said weakly. He’d thought it would hurt less to just blurt that out, but it pierced right through his heart, leaving empty and hollow. Peter looked _hurt_ at hearing that, but shook his head, putting his hand on Morse’s shoulder.

“ _No_ ”, Peter said, apparently determined to not let Morse destroy what they had left now. Morse was beyond grateful for that, but he was too busy holding back his tears to show it.

“I had a good time. _Thank you_. For being my friend, and… yeah.”

Peter didn’t say ‘for being there for me’, even though there was a hesitant pause that seemed to indicate he would’ve liked to. Morse couldn’t exactly blame him - he _hadn’t_ been there when Peter had needed him most, not after Blenheim Vale. He hadn’t done enough, and -

“Stop blaming yourself”, Peter said. “I know that look.”

Morse frowned. He was really getting tired, then, if he was that easy to read. Or then Peter was too bloody perceptive for his own good. It rarely happened, and it was just Morse’s luck to have him actually focus on things when Morse desperately wanted him not to notice them.

“Sorry”, Morse said. “I’m alright. I just -”

“I’m really sorry I didn’t tell you earlier”, Peter said. “And I know this is a piss-poor apology, but I mean it.”

Morse drew in a long breath, and before he had too much time to think about it, Peter was opening his arms and looking at him with a small, solemn smile on his face. It wasn’t _pitying_ , thank God, but it wasn’t a victorious grin either.

Morse stepped closer wordlessly, and let Peter pull him into a tight hug. He allowed himself a moment of peace, just holding Peter close and letting some tears fall against his shirt. It was already rained-on, so it didn’t make much of a difference, but judging by the way Peter stroked his hair and muttered a couple of calming words in a hushed voice, he still noticed.

“Write to me, alright?” Peter said, when Morse had swallowed his tears again and pulled away. He held on to Morse’s arms for a moment, before rubbing his shoulder gently and then letting go. Morse was left staring at him, trying to wipe his eyes without looking like he was doing that.

“I’d lo- like to”, Morse stuttered. “I’ll… try.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll make sure to remind you if you don’t”, Peter said, a mock-threatening tone creeping into his voice. “I’m pretty good at it.”

“Spelling?” Morse asked, raising an eyebrow. Peter snorted at that, and Morse found it in himself to let out a choked laugh as well. The ache in his chest got marginally easier, and the words they exchanged after that felt almost ordinary.

“You’re a good bloke, Morse. Just remember that”, Peter had said, the last thing he’d told Morse before going out the door. Morse had been left standing there, knowing that he’d probably bloody burst into tears the moment it snapped shut again.

/ / /

“Morse”, Peter said. “You awake?”

Morse stared at him for a bit, unfocused, but managed to nod after that. Peter looked over at him, one hand on the wheel. The other was holding a cigarette, and Morse found himself staring as Peter brought it to his lips.

“Oh, I didn't realise you’d picked up -” Peter started. It only took Morse a second to pick up on what he was talking about, and he had to fight his face to keep from blushing.

“No! No thank you, I still don’t smoke”, Morse said. He was searching through his brain for a way to backtrack, to save himself from explaining _why exactly_ he’d been staring at Peter’s lips and fingers.

“Just a bit tired, that’s all”, Morse said. “It was a fifteen-hour flight.”

“Understandable”, Peter said. “Wasn’t the smoothest trip for me either when I came here.”

Morse looked out the window, and realised they were even _more_ in the middle of nowhere than they’d been before. He checked out his watch - still in Oxford time - but didn’t have time to make his tired brain come to any conclusions before Peter spoke.

“It's pretty much straight ahead for the rest of the ride”, Peter said. “Just a quarter-hour or so before we're there.”

“Alright”, Morse said, yawning a bit before stretching out his calves and rolling his shoulders. He could manage that.

“How about girls?” Peter asked. “How are you doing in that regard? I’d imagine men in Oxford are having it easier these days, now that I’m not there to outbalance the market.”

There he was again with the difficult questions. Morse didn’t know whether he should scoff at how… _himself_ Peter was being or simply blush in agreement, so he did both, trying to hide the latter with the former the best he could.

“All quiet on the Western Front”, Morse said. “I guess I just… haven’t come across anyone.”

 _Not after you_. His heart couldn’t take too much shattering at once, even Morse knew that, and yet there he was, falling for a married man all over again. It shouldn’t have been so quick and easy, but he’d felt it the moment he’d seen Peter again.

Peter looked thoughtful at that, but was merciful enough not to try to give him advice. It would’ve felt pretty horrible.

“That’s odd”, Peter said. “A good-looking bloke like you, with ginger curls and deep blue eyes. You always had birds falling for you left and right, didn’t you?”

They stared at each other for a bit too long, and if Morse hadn’t known better, he would’ve said _Peter_ was about to turn red. The silence got too heavy, after a while, and Morse didn’t want Peter to crash, so he let out an awkward chuckle to get rid of the tension.

He didn’t know what Peter was expecting him to say, so he just had to come up with something.

“Haven’t really noticed anything like that, lately”, Morse said. Peter shrugged.

“Maybe you’re just too busy getting wrapped up in your own head to realise”, Peter said, a small smile tugging at his lips. “That’s how you’ve always been.”

“Maybe so”, Morse said.

He couldn’t exactly say that no, he wasn’t oblivious to things, just still pining after Peter after all this time. Nothing good would’ve come out of telling him that, and Morse _knew_ it.

A while passed in almost-silence, neither of them having quite mastered the American way of feather-light small talk, before Morse realised there was a pretty urgent question he needed answered.

“So… Hope’s family lives on the farm, too?” Morse asked. He _wasn’t_ prepared to meet Peter’s father-in-law, the man who liked pickup trucks, least of all now that Morse was tired and more than a bit hungover. He really wasn’t in the shape to seem like an ideal guest for the whole summer.

“Her parents, yeah”, Peter said. “But they’re visiting relatives and sightseeing until early September. Takes a lot of time in a country this big. Travelling, I mean. She’s got a big sister, too, lives an hour away. Uncles and cousins come over to help out on harvest season. Good that we’ve got plenty of space.”

Morse let out a sigh in relief.

“I was pretty nervous before meeting them”, Peter said. “Since it isn’t exactly a mystery to them as to why their baby girl found herself a man and settled down that suddenly. But they’re nice.”

“So it’s just Hope and… Cheryl?” Morse said, rather proud of himself for remembering Peter’s daughter’s name. Hearing it made Peter’s face light up.

“Yeah”, Peter said. “Summer’s not that busy, but we do appreciate the help. It’s actually the first proper one at the farm for me, since we were off honeymooning last year.”

“Right”, Morse said.

Morse was still a bit nervous, to be honest, about Hope. He didn’t say that out loud, but Peter knew him well enough to read it on his face.

“Don’t worry”, Peter said. “Cheryl’s so small that she won’t care if you’re a bit stiff. And Hope’s a sweetheart.”

The sun had firmly settled into an afternoon almost-amber when they finally turned to a smaller road completely surrounded by fields, then another, until they were driving through a gate that said _Magnolia Creek_. Morse drew in a deep breath, and it took him a while to realise the car had stopped.

“Here we are”, Peter said. “I can take your bags.”

“No, you don’t have to, it’s -” Morse started, but Peter had already got out of the car. Morse let out a sigh, rubbing at his eyes before opening the door and following him.

There was a barn, a farmhouse, and a couple of buildings Morse couldn’t really name. Something quite a bit bigger in the distance, probably stables and cattle sheds. The landscape was very much the same as what he’d seen from the window, but now that he was actually _experiencing_ it instead of just looking, it seemed terribly vast and wild. He’d never been to a place like that before.

“Come on”, Peter said. Morse hadn’t even realised he was standing next to him.

“Peter, this is…” Morse started. Peter smiled.

“I know”, Peter said. “I still can’t believe it, some days.”

They walked through the yard, Peter carrying Morse’s bags, Morse trying to find out whether his hair was hanging limp over his eyes or looking alright. He should’ve checked in the car, when he had the mirror, and he should’ve probably straightened out his shirt while he was at it. Not that it would make that much of a difference, when there were very noticeable dark circles under his eyes, but he could’ve at least _tried_.

And then they were inside. Morse was in _Peter’s home_. Peter put the bags down and started taking his shoes off. Morse went to hang up his coat, when Peter had motioned that it was alright, before doing the same.

“Hope, honey”, Peter called out. “We’re here.”

“Coming!” a voice answered, from another room, and then there were swift, quiet footsteps. Morse probably wouldn’t have even heard them, had he not been listening so nervously. Peter turned to look at him and offered him a smile of encouragement. Morse returned it with a tilt of his head.

And then she was standing there. Hope.

She was shorter than Morse had expected, but her auburn hair was pretty much the same as he remembered, from the time he’d looked at her through the pub window. It was long, almost down to her waist, and rather curly. Morse simply stared at her for a moment, his tired eyes as wide as he could manage.

“Well, hello”, Hope said. Morse lifted a hand to rub at the back of his neck, suddenly at a loss for words. It took Peter nudging him gently before he managed to take a step forward.

“Oh, I… hi”, Morse said. Peter grinned at them.

“Hope, this is Morse”, he said. “From Oxford.”

“You mean the man you’ve been talking about for weeks on end?” Hope asked. Morse turned to look at Peter, who seemed a bit flustered, but cleared his throat regardless.

“Morse”, Peter said. “This is Hope. She’s my wife.”

Morse had to physically wrench his eyes away from Peter to turn to look at Hope. She was smiling at him.

“Nice to meet you”, Morse said, stepping over his bag to offer his hand. Hope took it, and they shook hands. He did his best to make his grip polite, even though he had a feeling even his _hands_ were more exhausted than usual.

Hope had very soft hands. That was pretty much the only observation he was capable of making. It was curious, really, for a woman who’d grown up at a ranch, and he was still wondering about it when he let go.

“My pleasure”, Hope said. “It’s good to have you here. You came such a long way.”

That made Morse remember that he had indeed spent the last twenty hours in pretty much a daze. He couldn’t help the yawn, but at least he had the sense to cover his mouth with his hand. He didn’t realise he was swaying on his feet before Peter took a step to lay a steadying hand on his back.

“You should probably lie down for a bit”, Peter said. “I’ll show you the guest room.”

Morse didn’t have a chance to protest, and to be honest, he was too tired to do so, anyway. He followed Peter, and pretty much collapsed on the bed the moment he saw it.

“I’ll get you a blanket, hold up”, Peter said. “Though you should really consider actually getting under the -”

“This is fine”, Morse muttered against the pillow.

He didn’t stay awake long enough for Peter to get back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from I Will Always Love You, by Dolly Parton. Hey, I have a good excuse to listen to country music, since this fic is set in the American West in the late 60s. XD
> 
> I'm hoping to get the first seven chapters out tonight, and I just noticed that it makes sense narrative-wise as well. Yay!


	4. Deep Grass

When Morse woke up, he had to think for a moment before he realised where he was. Even after that, he had no idea what time it was - somebody had shut the curtains, and he’d apparently woken up at some point to take his trousers off, with the way they were bunched up at the end of the bed. It was probably good, as he most definitely wouldn’t have particularly enjoyed the feeling of his belt digging into his skin.

Somebody had also tucked him in under a soft blanket, and brought his bags to the room. It took him a while of staring at the ceiling before he realised he could hear voices from another room. At least it was some sort of reasonable hour or another, then.

He got dressed, but didn’t bother changing his shirt. It looked fine, even though it was a bit wrinkled out. When he pulled the curtains to the side and opened the blinds, Morse was relieved to notice that the light wasn’t stirring up a headache in the back of his skull. Not hungover, then, anymore. _Good_.

But then Morse remembered the time he _had_ been hungover, and there was an entirely different sort of pain in his chest. He’d really made a fool out of himself, with the way he hadn’t been awake enough to even get introduced to Hope properly, and Peter was probably going to have second thoughts about having him over for several months, and -

Morse drew in a long breath. He couldn’t know that, and he might as well try to save what there was left to save. After looking at himself in the mirror for just one more moment - at least he wasn’t looking any _worse_ after finally getting some sleep, thank God - he mustered up the courage and walked through the door.

He’d stood, unmoving, in front of a tiger. He could face Peter and his wife.

The chatter from the kitchen wasn’t terribly loud, but it was pretty easy to follow its sound. Morse took some time on the way to look at the walls, just to stall for time. There were some family pictures, of a somewhat younger Hope and another russet-haired girl sitting on a hay cart and smiling, roughly the same age. Probably the sister Peter had mentioned her having. There were also pictures of the farm, some rather old, and a map of the county. Morse couldn’t for the life of him figure out where Magnolia Creek was on the map - individual farms and ranches weren’t shown on that - but Peter would probably know, at this point.

The kitchen door was open, and Morse stepped in. Hope was sitting at the table with a cup of coffee and the day’s newspaper in front of her, and Peter was standing by the stove and talking softly. Morse didn’t realise it right away, but Hope was rather engrossed in the paper, not looking up at Peter but every once in a while, and that had to mean Peter was talking to -

“Oh! Morse”, Hope said, looking up from the paper and smiling at him. Morse tried to offer her one in return, but he was afraid it ended up being more than a little awkward. He didn’t _mean_ for it to be, but his face just didn’t always do what he wanted.

“Good morning. You look good. I mean… well-rested”, Hope said. “It’s good to see you up.”

“Good morning”, Morse said. Peter turned around to look at him too, and there it was. Another, much smaller face looking at him with curious eyes.

“Oh. This must be…” he started. Peter gave him a bright smile, and it was so bloody beautiful it made Morse’s heart jump to his throat. It almost _hurt_.

“Cheryl, honey”, Peter whispered. “Let’s go say hello to Morse.”

She was tiny. A little under six months old now, since she’d been born in January. Her hair was as dark as Peter’s, but her eyes weren’t blue. Probably from her mother, then.

Even though Morse couldn’t really know this early, he had a feeling she’d got some of Peter’s sharp features. It seemed like the sort of thing that was rather impossible not to pass down to your children.

“Hi”, Morse said, his voice a little bit choked. He leaned down, to be on eye level with Cheryl as she leaned against Peter’s chest, and thankfully, the smile came a little easier this time.

“Nice to meet you, Cheryl. I’m Morse. I used to work with your dad.”

“And will do that again this summer”, Peter said, lifting one hand to pet Cheryl’s hair. That made the girl let out a happy babble and reach his hand out to Morse, so Peter had to quickly grab her a bit better to prevent her from falling over.

When Morse looked up at Peter, there was a bright lovely smile on his face again, but this time it was directed at _Morse._ Jesus Christ.

“She’s my daughter, Morse”, Peter said. “I have a kid. Can you believe?”

“I can, now that she’s trying to pull my hair”, Morse said. It was impossible not to let Peter’s smile get to him and make him smile too, so he didn’t bother resisting. Peter laughed softly.

It had been difficult to believe, at first. Peter leaving for America with a wife and a kid on the way had been so sudden that some nights Morse had thought - _wished,_ though he was ashamed for even thinking about it - that it had been just a fever dream. Peter had been a frustrating, constant presence ( _urge,_ later) in Morse’s life for so long that him leaving didn’t seem like a thing that would happen. It just didn’t, and yet it had.

“Peter”, Hope said. “Not to interrupt you three, but don’t you think we should give Morse something to eat?”

“Bloody h- you’re right”, Peter said. “Morse, I don’t know how you managed not to starve to death. You slept almost fifteen hours.”

Morse didn’t know how to respond to that, so he just gave a sheepish smile and a shrug - it didn’t seem like a big deal, so he didn’t worry that much himself.

Apparently, it was the wrong answer.

“... don’t tell me you do this on a regular basis”, Peter said, brows a bit furrowed. Cheryl was staring at him a tad accusingly, too, and Morse felt his face burn softly.

“Not _regularly_ ”, Morse said, rubbing at his forehead. “I just… forget, sometimes. You’re starting to sound like Mrs Thursday.”

“Well, maybe it’s because she’s right to worry about you. Sit down. I’ll get you pancakes. Hope made a lot”, Peter said. “

“But Peter, I -” Morse started.

He wasn’t about to protest outright, but he didn’t want to be a burden on them. He was already a bothersome enough guest, with the way he hadn’t been able to stay up for more than ten minutes at most when he’d arrived, and he didn’t want to -

“Hey, no buts. Anything else you want?” Peter asked.

There was no arguing when he got like this, determined to get his own way. Even though it was terribly irritating sometimes, it _worked_ quite often, too. Morse let out a sigh in defeat, going to sit at the table across from Hope.

“Tea would be nice”, Morse said. Peter nodded, turning back to the stove for a second, before turning back around.

“Wait. How about bacon? Eggs?” Peter said. “Do it for the sightseeing, Morse. You’re in the United States of America.”

He rolled the ‘r’ in _America_ with an exaggerated accent, and Hope let out a snort. She covered her mouth when Morse looked at her, but couldn’t help her smile.

“No bacon, thank you. But eggs would be fine”, Morse said. Peter smiled and nodded.

“Coming righ’ up, mister”, Peter said. Morse raised an eyebrow, and Hope laughed again.

“Pete, you do realise that you can’t drop your t’s if you’re going for American”, Hope said, grinning. “Doesn’t work like that.”

“At least I tried”, Peter said. “Yee-haw.”

Hope, who had just taken a sip of her coffee, almost choked on it. Morse couldn’t help his laugh at that point, either - the way Peter said it was simply so dry that he couldn’t deal with it.

Well, even if the way Peter dressed was very different now, Morse was glad to see he was still as prickly as ever. He wasn’t probably going to ever change in that regard.

Peter placed the pancakes and tea in front of him, and gave him a knife and a fork as well before starting up on cooking the eggs. Morse stared at his plate for a moment, puzzled at the sheer amount of pancake on it (there were only two, but they seemed _huge_ ), before digging in.

“So”, Hope said, after giving Morse some time to get started, “Morse. I’ve been meaning to ask.”

“Go ahead”, Morse said. Hope smiled.

“Feels weird calling you Morse”, Hope said. “Do you have a first name to go with it? Peter said you do.”

Peter let out a muffled laugh, which made Morse turn to look at him, unimpressed and quite a bit offended. However, the bugger had already turned back around, to mind the eggs.

“Come on”, Hope said, leaning forward over her coffee cup. “What is it?”

“It’s a stupid name”, Morse said, trying not to look _too_ disgruntled. “Old-fashioned and foolish.”

“Well, my name is _Hope,_ if you didn’t happen to notice yet”, Hope said. “And my sister’s called Faith. Good that there’s just two of us, otherwise there’d probably be a Grace too. So I don’t think it can be _that_ bad for you either.”

Morse shifted in his seat, taking a sip of his tea to avoid having to confront the question. Bloody Peter. He hadn’t ever been one to use Morse’s first name mockingly _that_ much, even though he knew it from the several official documents they’d often handled at the station. It had still happened, a couple of times, and it wasn’t particularly nice.

“Mmh”, Morse muttered. “I’d rather not.”

“It just feels weird calling you Morse all the time”, Hope said. “Like you were some big gun or an army general or something like that. I don’t know how things are done in Oxford, but I do think we know each other pretty well by now.”

“Ermm”, Morse said. Very intelligent, just perfectly sharp and proper. He was really showing off the years he’d spent in college. Hope’s face turned softer, less curious and more encouraging.

“Morse _who_?” she asked. “Is your first name just _Forename_? Forename Morse?”

“It’s Detective-Constable Morse”, Peter chimed in. “He’s just embarrassed because he ended up doing exactly what his name says for a living.”

“Oh, shut up, Peter. Although I do almost wish it was”, Morse said. He tried to not bury his face in his hands, but the redness creeping up on him was making the situation more uncomfortable than it had to be.

“My mother was a Quaker. It’s _Endeavour_.”

Hope stared at him in stunned silence for a moment. Peter was trying to hold back his laughter and squeezing Cheryl tight, his shoulders shaking.

“... it’s not _that_ bad”, Hope eventually said. Morse simply shrugged.

“It isn’t?” he asked. Hope gave him a sheepish smile.

“Alright, maybe a little bit”, she said.

“I _know_ ”, Morse said.

“Well, at least that’s out of the way now”, Peter said, letting the eggs fall on Morse’s plate and on top of his half-finished pancake. Morse looked up at him, not knowing if he should grumble at him for just _dropping_ them there or thank him, so he ended up nodding. It made Peter smile and pat at his shoulder.

“Hope”, Morse said, pushing one of the eggs around with his fork. “I’d really appreciate if you kept calling me Morse.”

“Don’t worry, I will”, Hope promised. “It’s easy enough.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Blossoms - Deep Grass. I'd actually never listened to that band before my friend filled my cowboy fic playlist with it. Thank you, matey XD (For real, though!!)


	5. Sometimes It Hurts Instead

Morse got a tour of the ranch later that day, and there were even more opportunities for him to stare at the horizon and simply gape at how vast and faraway everything was. He met some horses - one black mare in particular seemed terribly interested in him, called Sally - which Peter informed him were quarter horses, a good Western breed. They didn’t get to the cows yet, as the animals spent most of their time wandering around the pastures, but Peter assured him he would have to get used to the smell soon enough. Morse had rolled his eyes at that - ‘ _I’m not_ that _much of a city dweller, you know’_ \- but appreciated the sentiment anyway.

The food was good, even if he felt like he’d eaten more in one day than he had in the last _week_ he’d spent in Oxford, and he was happy to see Peter again, he truly was. However, there were some things that felt decidedly less _good_ and more… well, there was no going around it. _Painful_. It was just like the time he’d caught a glimpse of Peter and Hope through the pub window, except that this time, they weren’t just standing next to each other and listening to Thursday toast to their happy, shared future.

It wasn’t as if Peter was _gone_ , or lost. He’d never been Morse’s, and Morse understood that perfectly well - it just wasn’t something they’d ever talked of, so it hadn’t come to be. It shouldn’t have mattered to him that much, but it _did_ , as things always did, and it kept him awake at night.

Before, Morse had at least been able to tell himself that if it weren’t for the chance to get out of Oxford, Peter wouldn’t have left him, that they would’ve had the chance to fit their lives together and try to come up with something more permanent. Morse could’ve lived with that, with a half-truth that was so sweet he could believe it, but only having the _memory_ of a half-truth etched upon his mind was just painful. There was no comfort in trying to reason with himself by thinking that at least Peter had thought him good enough to put his hands on him, to be friends with Morse even after he’d almost screwed things up. Peter wasn’t his to hold dear, and Morse had to live with that.

And he couldn’t turn on Hope, either, start hating her for the fact that she’d given Peter a home and a family and something to hold on to. Peter seemed happier now than he’d really ever been in Oxford ( _except for those last few days_ ), his face almost as sunny as the weather in Wyoming often was.

Morse could see their love in the quiet moments between words, in glances that weren’t always shared but certainly always _felt_. It broke his heart each time it happened, and it felt even worse to know that he shouldn’t have been that sour about something he’d lost his chance on. He tried his best to hide it, of course, but Peter looked at him funny a couple of times, almost as if he was on to something. It didn’t make getting sleep at night any easier, and in the morning, he was even more miserable.

The occasional tender touches Hope and Peter shared just about tore his heart out, when all he could think of was Peter next to him, breathing the same air, hearing his heartbeat and understanding what it all meant. It was a very tempting dream - Peter being _there_ , for _him_ , knowing that even though Morse was sometimes bad with words, he cared terribly much.

But it didn’t matter. It couldn’t, and even if it had, Morse had to ignore it the best he could. He didn’t want to ruin anything. He was a friend, and that was enough.

They were sitting in the living room, as they had the past few nights, Peter with his arm around Hope, Morse in the armchair across from them.

“I better get her to sleep”, Hope said, when Cheryl started getting tired, looking like she might’ve started crying again soon. None of them wanted that. “It always takes a while.”

Hope walked out of the room after kissing Peter goodnight - very chastely, but _still -_ and Morse couldn’t but _flinch_ at the way Peter was left looking at her as she went, fondness in his eyes. It was to be expected, of course, but after Morse had been thinking about Peter for the whole night, everything going through his mind in horribly captivating circles, it felt like a punch in the gut.

“Morse”, Peter said, after a while. Morse turned to look at him, not able to avoid his eyes anymore, and apparently there was something on his face that made Peter frown. He tried to cover it, whatever it was, but it only made Peter frown more.

“Is everything alright?” Peter asked.

“No, I… I mean, _yes_ , of course”, Morse said. Peter didn’t look convinced, so he tried to twist his mouth into a half-smile the best he could.

He could manage that much for a man, _a friend_ who’d now invited him to his home and been nothing but kind to him since the moment he’d arrived. It wasn’t _Peter’s_ fault that Morse had broken his own glassy heart and irrevocably handed him the thin, spiky shards, little by little until his hands were pierced and bleeding.

The end result of his smile probably wasn’t what he’d aimed for at all, because he could _feel_ the muscles on his cheeks and jaw straining, even though he’d tried to go for just the slightest smile, a curve of his lips. Peter’s frown deepened even further, and that confirmed that Morse was doing an awful job of it.

“Morse. You don’t have to hide it from me”, Peter said. Morse shook his head.

“Really, it’s nothing”, Morse said. “I just… I’ve been a little under the weather. Nothing to worry about.”

Peter drew in a long breath, before getting up and walking over to him. There was another empty armchair next to Morse, so Peter sat in it sideways, to keep his eyes on Morse.

“Morse. Look. I don’t know what’s bothering you, but I don’t _want_ you to be blue. You know that, right? It’s the very last thing I want”, Peter said.

His eyes were wary, and Morse couldn’t bear looking at his face any longer, since his own eyes were getting wet. Pathetic, really, and selfish and unfair.

Morse didn’t want to be the one to bring storm clouds to this piece of open sky that Peter had managed to scrape together for himself. It wasn’t right to want to take that away, and Morse was pretty sure that he was tainting the bloody air with his bitter gloominess by being there. He didn’t belong in the sun, even though he liked the warmth, craved it more than he could bear.

Morse swallowed against the tightness in his throat the best he could. Peter noticed.

“Peter, I didn’t mean to -” Morse started, but the look in Peter’s eyes alone made him stop before he could even try to think of an explanation. He wanted to talk about Oxford as little as he wanted to tell Peter why he’d been so… detached, especially towards Hope.

Morse didn’t _want_ to be rude to her, to either of them. He just didn’t know how he could be very warm either, when each time he looked at Peter and Hope, he felt a vast, hollow space, starting somewhere beneath his ribcage and running all the way down to the pit of his stomach. He swallowed again, almost shaking with the tears he was holding back, and this time there was a comforting hand on his shoulder.

“Shh”, Peter said, leaning closer and hovering over him for a second. Morse didn’t know what it was about before he realised that Peter was probably on the verge of embracing him. Morse was glad he didn’t - he couldn’t have handled it, he would’ve surely shattered to pieces from that, knowing that it was what he so desperately wanted but given for the wrong reasons, given because Peter didn’t know how petty and selfish Morse was, deep down.

“Breaks my sodding heart to see you like this”, Peter said, hand still on his shoulder, rubbing gently. His voice broke in the middle, and Morse let out a slightly hysterical almost-sob, or maybe it was a laugh.

Morse tried to open his mouth to apologise for being so bloody weak over things that _weren’t his to worry about_ , not anymore, but he couldn’t speak.

Peter was staring at his lips.

“Morse, mate, please. It’s alright”, Peter said, and if Morse hadn’t known better, he would’ve thought that _Peter_ was about to start crying too.

“Just let me… I -”

Peter trailed off, and when Morse simply stared at him, confused, he half-shrugged. Before Morse knew it, there was a warm face against his, thin lips gently pressed on his.

He’d missed it. Peter wasn’t soft like most of the other people he’d spent time kissing in his life, but there was a definite charm about his big angular hands and the elegant way he carried himself. It had made Morse weak in the knees a long time ago, and it was happening again now.

At first, Morse simply rested his hands on Peter’s chest, feeling it rise and fall. Peter was stroking Morse’s cheeks with his thumbs, and when a tear slipped down, he wiped it away and drew in a shuddering breath through his nose. They parted for just a second, but Morse didn’t open his eyes, too desperate to make this dream last, to not have it be one of those he forgot in the morning.

But then Peter was kissing him again, and this time, Morse was kissing back. He opened his mouth to let Peter in and leaned against the hand on his cheek to really feel it, to convince himself that it was all _real_. It was, the strong heartbeat under his hands, the sweet smell of cologne and the bitterness of cigarettes seeping so deep into him that he could feel it in his throat.

The way Peter kissed hadn’t changed in the slightest. At least the way he kissed _Morse_ hadn’t.

But after a moment, Morse realised what he was doing.

It wasn't the feeling of security that made him want to hold on, it was pure, selfish _want_ , and he had no right to feel that way about Peter. He'd lost that when he'd lost Peter, when they'd let each other go somewhere along the way.

Morse let go of Peter, pushing him away and scrambling up from the chair. The look on his face must've been completely stunned, since Peter blinked a couple of times before focusing on him again, slightly horrified.

“Wait, Morse, I’m so sorry”, Peter blurted out. “I shouldn't have -”

“No, it's fine, don’t, I... _I'm_ sorry. It’s not your fault. Good night”, Morse said without stopping to breathe in between, stumbling a couple of steps back without looking at Peter - but not really looking away, either, because for some reason Peter looked confused and _hurt_ , even though it was supposed to be Morse’s thing - before all but fleeing the room.

After his hurried steps had carried him away as fast as he could possibly manage, the door to the guest room snapped shut. The sound seemed to echo in the room, making Morse’s ears ring. His whole face felt numb, except for his lips, which were still tingling softly where Peter’s had touched them. Morse lifted a hand to his mouth as if he could wipe off the memory, and each one before that, of hands on his cheeks and ash on his tongue. It didn’t help. He couldn’t.

Peter didn't follow him, which was good, because Morse felt the remnants of his self-control crumble into nothingness. He sat down on the floor, his back against the door, and buried his face in his hands. Maybe doing so would help him breathe a bit less erratically.

He was painfully aware of the fact that he didn't belong in that room. The walls were painted a warm brown, with pale beige curtains framing the lone window beside the bed. It had a hardwood floor and a surprisingly soft rug, probably handmade by the looks of it. There was a small drawer next to the bed, with a dim but working table lamp on top. Everything was warm and _cosy_ , and Morse had no doubt that for Peter, arriving in Wyoming had felt like coming home, even though he’d never been there before.

(And with the persistent bleakness and the worried _something_ flashing in Peter’s eyes from time to time that he’d had in Oxford, Morse didn’t even know if the poor bloke had _had_ a proper home before. Probably not, or at least not in a long time.)

Morse didn’t want to be the one to take that away. He _knew_ that him coming to visit might bring up some bad memories, and he’d had some doubts eating away at him on the plane ride already, but he’d never expected to be the cause to the sort of problems they were facing now. He hadn’t really moved on, it would’ve been ignorant not to admit it by now, but Peter had always been more flighty with his affections. Morse had thought that now that he’d married Hope, he simply cared for Morse as a friend, and that should’ve been alright with them both. But apparently not, then.

He didn’t know how to make it right. Everything was so hard and _wrong_ all the time, and Morse realised he shouldn’t have taken the easy way out of Oxford. Problems seemed to follow him wherever he went, and with each passing day, it was growing harder to believe he was a victim of circumstance. He’d always known there was _something_ in him that made people stay, but only until they didn’t. It had happened so many times that it should’ve been fine by now.

Sleep didn’t come easily that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Adele's Someone Like You. I'm complete trash for that song, and I'm glad I had the opportunity to name a chapter after a lyric from it!
> 
> This was one of the most nerve-wracking chapters for me to write. Poor, poor Morse. He's my s o n and I love him.


	6. Fades Away Like Morning Dew

Morse woke up slowly, the sand-brown dream he’d had slipping away like a dandelion seed on a windy day. It was the middle of the night, still, and it took a moment for him to realise _why_ he was awake.

Cheryl was crying. Morse could hear it even though the sound came from another room. There were also slow, deliberately light footsteps, and a quiet shushing, but it didn’t seem to calm the child down at all. After sitting up in bed and contemplating it for a moment, Morse decided that he should probably look into it, just in case. He was already awake, so might as well get up for a while. His head was foggy, his thoughts kept running wild, and Morse already knew that sleep probably wouldn’t come very soon even if he tried.

“Everything alright?” Morse asked, peeking out of the door after he’d opened it carefully as to not startle anyone.

Hope was standing in the hallway in a nightgown, a small but loud bundle in her arms, and she turned to look at him. Her eyes were tired and her auburn hair was a mess on her shoulders.

“Yeah, sorry for waking you up, too”, Hope said. Morse stepped out of the bedroom, not knowing what to say, but he didn’t really want to keep standing around in the doorway, either.

“I just fed her a half-hour ago”, Hope said, her voice barely a whisper, but Morse could hear the exhaustion and see it in the way she had to blink constantly to keep her eyes open. She kept gently rocking the baby in her arms, but Cheryl still cried. Hope gave Morse a pained smile before leaning down to press a kiss on her forehead.

“She keeps waking up, has been at it for the whole night. I don’t understand why.”

Morse didn’t really know either. He really wasn’t the best person to come to for advice on keeping children happy. (Or anyone, for that matter.)

“I could hold her for a while”, he offered, after deciding that it wouldn’t hurt to ask. “You really need all the sleep you can get.”

Hope let out a slow sigh in agreement, but after a moment of relief the look on her face changed. Morse recognised that look - that’s what people looked like when they were terribly afraid of being a bother. (He had a feeling that his own face looked like that a lot of the time.)

“It’s okay, I don’t want you to trouble yourself. I -” Hope started.

“Please”, Morse said. “If there’s any way I can help, I’d be glad to.”

Even though he wasn’t an expert on children, he knew that sleepless nights were something new parents had to live with for months on end, sometimes even years. If he could try to make it easier for Hope just this one time, it had to be worth something. And it wasn’t like he had anything else to do, awake at that hour.

“Well, if you’re sure”, Hope said, and stepped closer to hand Cheryl to him.

It felt very foreign at first, to have a small warm child in his arms, resting her head against his chest. For a moment, Morse was afraid that Cheryl would just start wailing harder when her mother wasn’t holding her anymore, but surprisingly, she didn’t. She didn’t exactly calm down either, but Morse hadn’t expected her to.

“I’ll come get her if it doesn’t work out. No pressure”, Hope said, and gently booped her daughter’s tiny nose before walking back to the bedroom and shutting the door.

Morse stood there for a while, rocking Cheryl softly like Hope had, but it didn’t really change the situation. He tried to think of something while he walked out of the hallway, a bit further into the house - if he couldn’t make Cheryl fall asleep, he could at least make sure her parents had a chance to try.

It was then that he thought of a song. They’d performed it in choir a few years back with some similar ones, and somehow the words had stuck on his mind long after it had been taken out of the repertoire.

Morse hushed Cheryl one more time, lifting his hand to rub her back gently, and drew in a breath. Singing in the middle of the night was better than having a child cry, and it was a song that was easy to keep soft.

_The water is wide and I can't cross over_

_And neither have I wings to fly_

_Build me a boat that can carry two_

_And both shall row my love and I_

 

_There is a ship and it sails on the sea_

_Loaded deep as deep can be_

_But not as deep as the love I'm in_

_I know not if I sink or swim_

 

_I leaned my back up against an oak_

_Thinking it was a trusty tree_

_But first it bent and then it broke_

_Just like my own false love to me_

 

As he sung and walked and swayed with Cheryl in his arms, she slowly quieted down. She still stared at him wide-eyed, but rather than in terror, it was in curiosity. She even reached to touch his shoulder with her tiny hand.

It was dark, so he couldn’t tell for sure, but he was pretty sure that she had Peter’s eyebrows. The thought made his heart melt a little.

Eventually, walking around started to feel awkward, so he sat down in an armchair in the corner of the sitting room. He kept singing until Cheryl finally fell asleep.

Morse didn’t want to risk waking Cheryl up now that she’d finally calmed down, so he just leaned back in the armchair and let her sleep against his chest. It wasn’t terribly uncomfortable, and he could think of many far worse ways of spending a sleepless night. Cheryl was breathing evenly against him, and it was relaxing to just _be_ there without having his mind run in frantic circles and chase after things he’d yet to clear up.

Sometimes he did feel things knocking in the back of his mind, demanding to become realised thoughts, but Morse was too tired to oblige them. It was better to just hold Cheryl and listen to the distant hum of the world outside the house. Animal footsteps, sometimes, wind in the trees, and Morse thought he heard rain at some point, too.

He didn’t fall asleep, and he had no idea how long passed, but eventually he heard quiet footsteps. It was Hope.

“Couldn’t fall back asleep”, she said as she saw them. “Peter snores.”

Morse raised an eyebrow. Not a surprise - that’s what you got for smoking like a chimney. He still felt bad for Hope.

“You actually got her to sleep? That’s amazing”, Hope said. Her voice was tired but grateful. Morse nodded, taking care not to disturb Cheryl. He got up slowly, legs stiff.

“Thank you so much”, Hope whispered, and reached forwards to take her daughter from Morse. It took some time to pass Cheryl between them without waking her up, and their hands brushed together for an almost uncomfortable amount of time. Not that it felt bad or that Morse hated the very idea - Hope had soft hands - but he still felt awkward and uncomfortable and like he should’ve been somewhere else entirely every time he looked at Hope. It was nothing personal.

Hope carried Cheryl to the bedroom, and Morse trailed behind her, not sure whether he should just disappear into his room now. He didn’t have time to make a decision before Hope walked back out of the bedroom.

“Seems I was right to trust you”, Hope said quietly, leaning against the doorframe. “You sing beautifully.”

“Thank you”, Morse said. He did appreciate the compliment, even though he couldn’t agree with the other thing Hope had said.

He hadn’t exactly been trustworthy for the week he’d known her. Hell, Morse hadn’t been even remotely reliable, keeping secrets from her and looking at Peter when he thought nobody would see and hoping for something he’d never get back.

The guilt about the kiss they’d shared was still heavy on his chest. Even though it had probably been a one-off thing, something Peter had done for old times’ sake in the spur of the moment, it felt wrong to hide it from his wife. It was better to tell her, own up to it and apologise right away, because maybe she wouldn’t loathe him if he explained himself sooner rather than later. (Or at least Morse was counting on it. _He didn’t know what else to do_.)

“... this is probably a very bad time, but Hope, I’m so sorry”, Morse said quietly. Hope tilted her head slightly.

“What for?” she asked. Morse swallowed audibly.

“I don’t know how to put this, but - I - there’s something you need to know about Peter and I”, Morse said, rushing through it to get the words out and over with.

“I know you two had a fling in Oxford. Don’t worry about that“, Hope said. Morse froze where he stood, not even daring to blink out of the fear that the world turn on its head yet again.

“You… _what_ ”, Morse mouthed, but no words came out. It was blunt and horribly rude, but he was utterly lost on how he should’ve felt about hearing something like that. At least Peter had apparently spared him the pain of explaining why two men would end up becoming… well, like they had, for a while. Morse didn’t really have the words to describe what they’d had together.

“Peter’s poker face is pretty terrible”, Hope said.

“He told me months ago, before your visit was even in the talks yet. I’m telling you what I said to him then - _it’s alright_.”

“He kissed me last night”, Morse blurted out, and tried to fight the warmth climbing up his cheeks to avoid further embarrassing himself. “I didn’t tell him no.”

“Did you want to? Refuse, I mean”, Hope asked. Morse really wanted to turn on his heels and walk away without answering, but it was still the middle of the night, and he was tired of running, at least for the time being. He shook his head, and Hope smiled at him knowingly.

“Then I don’t see what the problem is. As long as you’re both fine with what you’re doing, it’s alright with me, too. A little more warmth in the world doesn’t hurt anyone”, Hope said, and stepped closer.

Morse wasn’t sure if he’d heard right, and he was beginning to wonder if it was all a dream, and if he’d soon wake up to the same heartache he’d been feeling for a while now. But maybe it _was_ true.

Hope leaned closer to him and patted his hand good-naturedly. The touch made him flinch, but he tried to hide it the best he could.

“I can definitely see why he’s into you”, Hope whispered, before standing up on her tiptoes and giving him a kiss on the cheek.

“Goodnight, Morse. Try to get some sleep.”

Morse managed to mutter a reply, but it took some time for him to break away from the daze he’d fallen into. When he finally made it to his room, he realised morning was breaking outside the window.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from the traditional Scottish folk song Morse sings in this, 'The Water is Wide'. Folk revival was a really big phenomenon in the 60s and 70s, so I felt like an old song like that was perfect for this.


	7. Smoke It Through

The day after the sleepless night was… interesting, to say the least. Morse had _thought_ that by confessing everything to Hope he could rid himself of the guilt and misery and actually move on with his life and let Peter have his happiness.

But the answers he’d got from Hope hadn’t been answers at all, and they’d only managed to make the situation _more_ complicated than it had been. Morse had no idea what to do with the knowledge that Peter still wanted him, at least to some extent, and that _his wife was alright with it_. He ended up avoiding silent, sincere moments with them both for the whole day, trying to keep himself busy with questions about how life at the farm was and looking puzzled and making half-hearted attempts at explaining _why_ he’d wanted to come to Wyoming, exactly.

It wasn’t working very well, because after a while Peter started looking a bit worried, not saying anything about it but frowning to himself when he didn’t see Morse looking. Morse wondered if they’d talked about him, Hope and Peter. He hadn’t been a very good guest so far, the little work he’d helped with probably being outdone by the stiff, awkward moments he kept causing.

He didn’t do anything about the whole mess all day, trying to act like it didn’t even exist and pretending not to be bothered by the casual touches and small gestures of appreciation that Peter and Hope kept sharing. They were _married_ , it was to be expected that they’d actually enjoy each other’s company. Besides, it wasn’t Morse’s business in any way, so what he thought about it didn’t matter.

Morse _knew_ it didn’t matter at all, but something small and painful in him disagreed, and it ended up keeping him awake long into the night. When he finally managed to fall into a restless sleep, it felt like he only got a minute of it before being woken up.

“Morse”, a voice said, drawing him out of the dream he was already forgetting.

“Hey, Morse. Get up, mate.”

“What”, Morse slurred, trying to get his eyes open. The last few nights hadn’t been the best sleep-wise - to be honest, Morse didn’t know if he’d slept well on any of them - and it was probably still early. The birds outside were already loud, though. Maybe they were after early worms.

“Sorry”, Peter said.

“I was just wondering if you could help out with feeding the horses. Gets done faster with two.”

Morse sat up, absent-mindedly running his fingers through his hair. He could feel Peter staring at him with his blue-grey eyes, but when Morse turned to look at him, he cleared his throat and pretended to look out the window. What in the world was that about?

“The weather’s nice, too”, Peter said. “Probably not going to rain anymore. Not today, at least.”

“I’ll come with you. Just let me get dressed first”, Morse said, climbing out of bed. Peter took it as his cue to leave, but when he thought Morse wouldn’t notice, he turned his head to throw a quick glance at him before walking out the room.

Morse couldn’t stop wondering what all that had been about, but he couldn’t stay and dwell on it forever - his trousers wouldn’t pull themselves up, and Peter was waiting.

“Let’s get going, then”, Peter said as Morse opened the door.

As soon as they’d stepped out of the house, he pulled out a lighter.

“A cigarette at six in the morning, really?” Morse asked. He shouldn’t have been surprised, but he _was_ annoyed at the fact that his eyes followed Peter’s lean fingers as they fumbled with the pack and lit the fag and drew it to his lips. It seemed that old habits were hard to break, for them both.

“Gotta get it over with now”, Peter said, letting out a frustrated huff of smoke. Practically all of it was blown on Morse’s face, making his eyes sting and water.

“It’s too risky to do it with hay everywhere. I got a full lecture from Hope’s old man the moment we got here.”

“Seems reasonable”, Morse said. Peter shrugged and gave him a sly smile.

The sun was slowly rising, the sky a bright orange against the still-dark fields in every direction. There was nobody on the roads at this hour, so Morse couldn’t hear anything but birds chirping, distant cowbells somewhere and Peter breathing beside him.

Wyoming was very different from Oxfordshire, or any piece of countryside Morse had seen before for that matter. He wasn’t even sure where the nearest farm was - they’d probably driven past some of them when he’d arrived, but it had been just open fields and some forests for a long time after they’d passed the last one. It was peaceful, sure, but Morse wasn’t entirely sure whether it was a comforting peace, something to lose himself in, or of the terrifyingly vast and empty sort.

Peter smoked his cigarette in silence, still holding himself up in the same statue-like fashion as always, though Morse thought he saw some hint of a swagger that hadn’t been there before. Must have been the cowboy in him, or then Morse was just imagining things based on Peter’s high-heeled boots. At least he wasn’t wearing the bloody stetson right now. That would’ve been a bit much.

“Done”, Peter finally said, stumping out the cigarette.

“Let’s go get some hay.”

The dried hay was in bales, piled up in the barn, and Morse could see why Peter had asked him to help. It wasn’t very hard work, but carrying hay to the stable one armful at a time took a while, even when they worked together.

At least _someone_ was in a good mood that morning. The horses lifted their heads in curiosity the moment they saw them approaching. Morse was envious of the way they didn’t seem to mind being woken up as long as they got food for their troubles. He was pretty sure that even breakfast couldn’t take away the drowsy frustration he was feeling, or make Peter any less pensive. The silence, only broken by some instructions and short remarks here and there, was very unlike him. Morse didn’t know what to say to make it go away. Usually Peter was the one that kept them talking.

They returned to the barn, and only then did Peter open his mouth again.

“Let me just check the back room, and -”

“Peter”, Morse said, the name on his lips not quite a prayer, but probably not entirely free of desperation, either. Something in his voice made Peter stop and turn to look at him carefully, almost warily.

“Yeah?” Peter asked, slightly furrowing a brow. Morse drew in a deep breath. This wasn't going to be easy or comfortable or even very polite, but when was he ever. He didn't deal with unresolved questions very well, never had. They always ached at his head to the point of exhaustion, but actually talking about how he felt was so hard that Morse ended up causing more problems than he could ever solve.

Everything they'd had in Oxford had tied itself into a tight, painful knot that kept tugging at his heartstrings every time he looked at Peter. He needed to put a stop to it, one way or another.

“Why did you kiss me?” Morse asked. It was all he could do. He had nothing to give Peter, they both knew it, and he needed to put an end to whatever twisted game they were playing.

“I don’t know”, Peter said, the self-assured front gone in an instant. He suddenly looked hesitant, and Morse cleared his throat - he didn’t know if it was a good or a bad thing. Not yet, at least.

“Guess I thought you… _I wanted to_. I thought you’d want it too”, Peter stammered, and Morse could swear that he was on the verge of blushing. Peter never blushed. His face was far more well-behaved than Morse's, and it had driven Morse mad for as long as he could remember.

“But if the way you feel has changed, then -” Peter continued. Morse shook his head.

“You talk too much”, Morse said, stepping over the distance left between them. Peter almost _gasped_ , but smiled sheepishly and opened his arms to let Morse press against him, and it felt like the months they'd spent apart melted away, if just for a moment.

They stumbled a couple of steps back until Morse’s back hit a wall. He took Peter’s hands into his, seeing if they’d still fit together like they used to. Peter squeezed his hands tightly, stroking Morse’s palm with his thumb, and Morse felt a small smile tug at the corners of his mouth at the touch.

“Feels good to have you so close”, Peter said into his ear, leaning against him and moving his hands up his arms. He smelled of hay and sun and the same cigarettes as always, _still_ , and the strange familiarity made Morse shiver.

“Peter, God, I -” Morse said, trying not to sound too desperate even as he clung to Peter like a drowning man, hugging him close. “I missed you.”

There were so many other things he wanted to say, but when Morse tried to form the words, his tongue betrayed him. A tight ache curled itself in his chest, and he had to swallow hard and blink and breathe deep to keep his eyes from watering.

At least what Morse _had_ managed to say was true. He realised it now - he’d missed Peter for months. Guess he really wasn’t the type to get over things.

Peter looked at him through his dark lashes, completely still. When he finally moved, it was to draw in a sharp breath.

“Of course you did”, Peter said, but the nearly unnoticeable tremor in his voice undid his barely-held-together cocky tone, and his hands were heartbreakingly gentle when he stroked Morse’s cheek and neck. “I missed you too.”

Morse had carefully kept his hands off Peter since he’d arrived in Wyoming, but there was no need for that anymore. He straight-up shoved his hands in Peter’s curiously fluffy hair, holding on while Peter pushed him against the wall and kissed him properly for the first time in over a year.

It was soft and warm and _good_ , even though Peter’s hands were somewhat rougher than they used to be. Morse hadn’t quite gotten used to the curly hair yet, but he did appreciate the fact that at least he wouldn’t get pomade all over him.

(He missed the smell anyway, at least a tiny bit. Must have been some kind of misplaced nostalgia.)

The morning was warm, but it was so early that not yet uncomfortably so. There had been some mist over the fields when they’d walked across the yard, but there weren’t any windows, so the air in the barn was dry. Peter’s lips were soft and warm against his neck, and Morse couldn’t get enough of it. His heart was practically pounding in his ears when Peter moved his hands down his sides.

“Hands and knees, Morse”, Peter said, hands toying at his belt, and Morse was so breathless that he couldn’t do anything but lean in for one more kiss before letting go of Peter and crouching down to do as he was told.

“Are you sure about this?” Morse asked. It didn’t hurt to be certain, and he didn’t want either of them to make any rushed decisions, even though it grew harder to resist every single time Peter’s hands brushed against his bare skin. Morse wanted their shirts off, wanted Peter to get so close that it hurt, wanted to make up for all the time they’d lost.

“The door’s locked, it’s alright”, Peter said, hands pressing gently against Morse’s hips. “We can take our time.”

Morse couldn’t really disagree with that plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually wrote this chapter first, back when I started this fic in February. So in a way, this is the perfect end for today's spamming spree ;D
> 
> Title from Smoke, by Blossoms. I told you before, my playlist is full of that band thanks to a certain someone. XD
> 
> The next seven chapters are going to be up tomorrow. Stay tuned!


	8. This Heart Of Mine

The floor was a bit uncomfortable to say the least, but Peter showed off the cowboy chivalry he’d acquired and let Morse rest his head against his chest. They spent a while there, Peter running his hands through Morse’s hair and mumbling ash-laced words against his skin, Morse listening to his slowly steadying heartbeat.

“You’re so pale”, Peter said softly, touching Morse’s cheek and letting his hand trail down his chest. “It’s good that you’re here. Maybe you’ll get some sun for a change. A nice tan, perhaps.”

“Probably just some more freckles”, Morse said, and smiled when he felt Peter laugh. He’d missed that, too.

Eventually, they had to get up. It was getting too cold to stay, and they couldn’t exactly lie down on a bloody barn floor all day. It was a farm, and there was work to be done.

Peter helped Morse’s shirt back on, but it didn’t really feel like _helping_ when he kept touching him and kissing his neck and nearly convincing him that they should go for a second round right away.

They did eventually make it out and back to the house, Morse’s face still a bit redder than it probably should’ve been on a perfectly ordinary morning.

“Good morning”, Hope said when they came into the kitchen. She was busy with the bacon on the frying pan, but turned to smile at them anyway.

“You done with the hay?”

“Yeah”, Peter said, rubbing Morse’s shoulder gently before letting go of him to walk up to his wife and wrap his arms around her from behind. Morse was left standing at the doorway, and he suddenly felt as out of place as he had the moment he’d first seen how Peter and Hope _looked_ at each other, how they had a way of simply _being_ together, no secrets or uneasy moments.

Morse tried to think of a way to fold himself to occupy the smallest place possible, but he soon realised that it wasn’t going to help. He shouldn’t have been so fidgety all of a sudden just because he’d _shagged a married man_. With his wife’s enthusiastic consent, sure, but he still felt like a homewrecker when he looked at the way their faces lit up every time they looked at each other.

“Alright, Pete, stop it now”, Hope said, playfully swatting her husband’s hand away. Peter shrugged and leaned down to give her a quick peck on the cheek before letting go.

“Morse, honey, aren’t you going to sit down?” Hope asked, lifting the kettle to pour the water out. “I’ll be done with these any minute.”

Peter lifted his head and looked at him, smile falling when he saw the look on Morse’s face. No wonder - Morse was cross with himself, so his face must’ve matched the sourness inside.

“What’s wrong?” Peter asked.

“Nothing”, Morse said. “I just… I’d better go.”

He didn't know where, but _somewhere else than where he was now_. Away.

“No, Morse, wait”, Peter said, holding his hands up and approaching him like some… runaway calf that he didn’t want to scare off. “What is it?”

“I don’t want to be an affair”, Morse blurted out. He had no right to intrude upon a happy family like that. Staying as a guest for the summer was one thing, but messing around with Peter was another, no matter what he’d thought they had in Oxford. Maybe it wasn’t inherently wrong since Hope had agreed, and Morse realised that that wasn’t the problem. Regardless, he couldn’t help but feel a pang in his chest at the thought of being made just some distraction, _a summer fling_. Something to snog and pet and grab at for a while and then send away and happily forget. Morse couldn’t let Peter do that to him.

“I’m terribly sorry. I overstepped boundaries where I shouldn’t have. I don’t want to ruin anything. You’re happy, and that should be enough”, Morse said, refusing to listen to the nagging voice in the back of his mind that kept insisting he should’ve added _even if it means I stay miserable_ , that he should’ve done it just to hurt Peter, just like Peter had hurt him.

Even if things would never go back to how they had been in Oxford, or hell, _beyond that_ like Morse so desperately wished, he wanted to hold on to their friendship. He cared for Peter, and Peter had every right to be happy, especially with the terrible things the world had thrown at him.

“Morse, please, don’t act like this is some… that this is your fault”, Peter said. “It’s not. You’ve done nothing wrong.”

“I can’t give you what you want, Peter. Don’t force yourself to shag me because you… pity me”, Morse said, trying to keep his voice down. He didn’t want to shout, _they had a child in the house_ , Hope and Peter had a child and he was still hoping that maybe nothing had changed, that maybe Peter still felt the same as he did. But it was becoming clear that almost everything was different, and that Morse shouldn’t put too much faith on things beyond his control.

“What _I_ want?” Peter asked, and he sounded so shocked that Morse couldn’t look him straight in the eye anymore, couldn’t really do anything but nod silently and wish for the ground to open up and swallow him whole.

“For the love of God, Morse, you really don’t know why I’ve been making passes at you since the moment you got here, do you”, Peter said, his voice climbing a bit higher than was normal, probably from the sheer panic that was rattling in the air.

Morse looked at Peter - just for a moment, he couldn’t find the courage to face him properly - and saw something that looked like frustration in his eyes, but there was something else there, too. He couldn’t quite place it, but it was something far less angry and far more sad.

“I love you”, Peter said. “Is it so hard to understand? Hope has known it for what, at least six months now. Doesn’t bother her in the slightest. It’s not like I’ll run out of it or something. Love, I mean.”

“Men really should say that more often”, Hope muttered to herself somewhere that felt like far away, though she smiled apologetically at Morse when he glanced at her in shock.

Or well, he didn’t really _glance_ , per se. In reality Morse let his eyes brush over her, then the kitchen, then Peter, then his own feet on the floor. Everything was so blurry, both literally and figuratively, that he couldn’t really focus on anything else than the fact that his eyes were burning and his throat felt tight and _Peter was standing in front of him and saying to his face that he_ loved _him_.

“Morse, say something. Please”, Peter said, and when Morse blinked he realised that Peter was practically wringing his hands, anxiously waiting for him to shatter into a million pieces or start shouting or turn and walk away from his life once and for all.

“I… I don’t know”, Morse said, trying to remember to breathe. “I’m not -”

He had to pause, because he was struggling to find the words. Peter flinched away from him at that, and Morse realised what he must have sounded like.

“No, Peter, not like that, listen, I’m so sorry”, Morse said, and took a small step closer. Peter let out a sharp breath and opened his mouth, but didn’t say anything.

“I love you too”, Morse said, choking back tears. It was pathetic, honestly, but Peter’s eyes were wet too and he stepped closer to wrap his arms around him and pull him close and then Morse didn’t really mind crying anymore.

It wasn’t like he heard something like that very often. From Joyce, of course, when they ended phone calls and such, but otherwise it really wasn’t something people would toss around carelessly. Morse had never known when it was the right time to say it with the girls he’d gone out with, and oftentimes they’d already be on their way out of the picture before he even got the chance.

But Peter had said it and now he was hugging Morse tight, and it wasn’t hard to believe that he was being honest. It just wasn’t at all what Morse had been expecting, and the stress and shame and worry and relief all came out of him in hot tears against Peter’s shoulder. Peter was whispering something against his cheek and rubbing his back gently, but the words didn’t matter right now - the most important thing was that Peter was holding him near and he was _real_ , not a dream or a memory or a wishful thought.

Morse didn’t know how long they stood there, but they did, until Peter let go of him with one hand to take something. A clean white handkerchief. Two of them, actually. When Morse lifted his head, he realised that Hope had given them to Peter, but had now stepped away and turned her back to them. Probably to finish up setting the table.

He’d made the morning terribly awkward for them all. He hadn’t known Hope for that long yet, but he had a feeling that nobody would really appreciate having to deal with a nervous breakdown before they’d even had breakfast yet.

“Hope, I’m so sorry, I -”

“Hey, no worries”, Hope said, cutting Morse off before he could apologise more profusely.

“Better talk it out than let it gnaw at you day and night. That’s what I’ve been telling Pete, too.”

Even with three pairs of hands instead of just one, it took a while for them to gather all the things needed. Especially since Hope had to leave in the middle to go feed Cheryl, who’d woken up. Morse and Peter ended up having to put another kettle on the stove, as the water from before had already cooled down, and Morse really needed tea to calm down. Luckily Peter hadn’t given up on it during the year he’d been away from Oxford, and they had plenty.

“You should go do a round with Flash and Sally today”, Hope said as she came back, Cheryl in her arms. The girl had just woken up, but she was happy and quiet, smiling at Morse when their eyes met awkwardly. (Well, if looking at a _baby_ could be considered awkward, but somehow he felt like it was.)

“It would do you good, all four of you. Get away from the hustle for a bit. A couple of vets are going to be coming for a check-up at noon, but I’ll be able to handle them alright by myself”, Hope added.

“Sure”, Peter said. “Morse, how’s that sound? You’ll finally become a real cowboy.”

His eyes still felt a bit swollen, but Morse managed a smile nonetheless. The return to normal conversation wasn’t nearly as uncomfortable or forced as he’d feared.

“Sounds… Western”, Morse said, and both Peter and Hope smiled at that. “I’ll be happy to try.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from 'I Walk The Line', by Johnny Cash. Hey, it's period-accurate!
> 
> Here we go again with the edit marathon. Chapters 8-14 will be up today! I'm super excited to get them out.
> 
> Thank you so much for all the kind comments, I appreciate them SO MUCH!! Don't hesitate to leave more of them ;) They give me LIFE!


	9. Beyond The Horizon

Taking up cowboying was easier said than done, and Morse realised that rather quickly. Putting on the stetson wasn’t all that bad, even though Peter had grinned at the sight so widely that Morse’s cheeks had started burning yet _again_.

“Don’t forget the boots”, Hope called out from the kitchen.

“Oh, right”, Peter said, opening a cupboard. He pulled out a pair of cowboy boots, which were _thankfully_ a very plain brown, and their tips weren’t nearly as sharp or their heels as high as the ones in Peter’s shoes. Morse didn’t know if he would’ve been able to handle something that… sassy.

“You can borrow these, I did too when I was first practicing. They should fit you fine”, Peter said. Morse nodded and took them, and he had already pulled one on before he realised what Peter’s words implied.

“... you mean that _those_ are _yours_?” Morse asked, looking at Peter’s feet, his brows climbing so high that they were probably near his hairline. Peter followed his eyes down and clicked his heels together.

“Uh, excuse you”, Peter said. “Just because I can’t wear polos anymore, doesn’t mean I’m going to give up on looking sharp. These are the best boots in the county.”

The boots were probably the highest shoes Morse had ever worn. All the English riding boots he’d seen had had little to no heel, and at first they made him a bit uncomfortable. It wasn’t like he couldn’t walk in them - they weren’t _that_ sort of heels - but it was still _different_. The walk to the stable was short, but Peter kept glancing back at him with a grin on his face, and Morse tried not to feel self-conscious every time he did it. He was probably the palest and reddest prospective cowboy the world had ever seen.

Morse managed to brush Sally just fine by himself. She was big - well, probably not very big by horse standards - but she was so calm that some of it rubbed off on Morse. Grooming her wasn’t difficult at all, at least after Peter had warned him not to approach her from behind (he wasn’t _completely_ clueless when it came to big animals, thank you, but he did appreciate the effort) and showed him what to do.

They put the curiously stocky western saddles on the horses together, and it wasn’t all that bad to have something concrete to do with his hands after such a trying morning.

Peter took every opportunity he had to take a more… _hands-on_ approach to teaching Morse. It was subtle the first couple of times - Peter carefully grabbing his hand and moving it to fasten the right cinch or just barely brushing against his shoulder when he walked past - but he grew impatient quickly.

If Morse hadn’t caught on already, he definitely would have when Peter decided that it was essential to put his hand around Morse’s shoulders and pull him closer to explain him something about saddles that he probably didn’t even understand all that well himself. But in all honesty, it was pretty endearing, and Morse couldn’t keep from smiling.

“You’re not even trying anymore, are you?” Morse asked. Peter actually chuckled at that.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about”, Peter said, moving his hand down Morse’s back and holding on to him by his waist. “Do you want me to?”

“No”, Morse said, and leaned in to give Peter a quick kiss before he had the chance to take his teasing any further. Peter let out a surprised sound, but after they pulled apart, his cheeks were just a tiny bit more flushed than they had been. It was the summer heat, no doubt - it was almost nine, and the sun had already risen high.

The real trouble started only after they’d led the horses out of the stable. Morse barely had a chance to realise what was happening before Peter was standing there in his cowboy hat and heeled boots and expecting him to actually _get on a horse._

“Morse, seriously. Even a child could ride Sally, she’s not going to freak out no matter what. A bomb could probably go off right next to her and she wouldn’t mind”, Peter said. The black horse gently bumped him with her nose (Peter flinched away slightly - it was probably wet) as if to prove his words. Morse raised an eyebrow.

“That’s the thing”, Morse said. “I won’t know how to do anything up there.”

He’d _seen_ horses before, it wasn’t that he was afraid of them or something. He was just concerned for his safety.

“You’ll be just fine”, Peter said, trying to look convincing and escape Sally’s affections at the same time.

“Hang on to the horn - you know, the handle - if it comes down to it. At least we have them here, bet you’ve never seen saddles of that sort in England.”

Morse eyed Sally a bit warily. She didn’t seem like the type to start pulling tricks, but he still didn’t think he was ready to _ride off into the sunset_. He’d come tumbling down before the first step.

“I guess if you really want to, we could go without the saddle”, Peter said. Morse turned his head so quickly that he almost hurt his neck.

“Peter, _no_ ”, Morse said. Peter raised his hand apologetically, though Morse catched a glimpse of a smile before he managed to hide it.

“Kidding”, Peter said. “Come on. I’ll take a rope around Sally and tie her to Flash’s saddle. Don’t worry about it.”

Morse agreed in the end, but he _did_ still worry, from the moment Peter brought the rope all the way to when Morse flung a foot across Sally’s back, Peter holding on to his thigh on the other side to help him.

“There”, Peter said, patting Morse on the thigh and Sally on the shoulder. “Wasn’t that hard.”

Morse didn’t know if he agreed. He was in the saddle now, _sure_ , but he had no guarantee he’d be able to stay there once they started moving. Even sitting there when Sally was standing almost completely still required more balance than he’d thought it would.

Peter mounted his horse - Flash was a flaxen chestnut, a bit more stocky than Sally - and after that, there they went. Sally’s gait was bouncier than Morse had expected, even though they went slow, and he clung to the reins tightly, trying to look like he wasn’t terrified in the slightest. He tried to remember to keep his back straight and not fight against the rhythm the horse had decided on while they left the ranch and started trailing along the road.

The day was so clear that when Morse finally dared to look up and to the horizon, he could see mountains in the distance. Or hills, at least, low shadows against the grey-blue sky. It wasn’t that hard to see the appeal in riding through the vast plains and hills. It would’ve taken forever to walk anywhere. Besides, everything looked different when seen from horseback, higher up, rather than catching a glimpse of green and ochre flashing past a car window. Maybe it was the height, too.

“They usually keep off the roads, but I’ve seen some every now and then when I’ve gone further“, Peter said, turning around to look at him. Morse realised he hadn’t been listening, too focused on looking at things and not falling off to hear what Peter had been saying.

“Sorry, what?” he asked.

“Mustangs”, Peter said. Morse must have looked baffled at that, since Peter grinned at him.

“You have them here?” Morse asked, raising his eyebrows.

Sure, he knew that there were wild horses in the American West, but he hadn’t expected Peter’s life to have become something straight out of a Western flick.

If someone told Morse a couple of years ago how things would end up turning out, he wouldn’t have believed. Hopefully there weren’t any saloons around - that would’ve been a bit too much.

“Yeah”, Peter said. “Some of our neighbours think there’s too much of them, but they’re harmless. I didn’t come here to be a cowboy just to see all the wild horses getting shot. Hope agrees.”

Morse nodded at that.

In the end, Morse didn’t know how much of the ride was actually spent working - looking at how the cows were doing - and how much of it was Peter looking back at him and talking about fences and branding and lassoes, clearly happy to be the expert (albeit an inexperienced one) in something for once.

The highlight was probably the time Peter rode up to him and just straight-up _kissed him_. It was actually reassuring in a way - if _that_ didn’t manage to make Morse fall off, nothing probably would. But the way Peter drew it out certainly didn’t make sitting in the saddle any easier.

 

The ride ended up taking over two hours in its entirety, and when Morse finally slid off his horse - or well, he didn’t _slide_ , he half-fell, but luckily on his feet - his legs felt like jelly. It was embarrassing, honestly, the way he tumbled against Peter when he tried to take a step.

“Not too bad for a beginner”, Peter said smugly, lighting a cigarette after they’d taken the horses back. Morse tried to stand in a way that would hide the fact that his legs were almost shaking. The boots didn’t exactly help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Indigo Blue by Jake Bugg.


	10. A Double On Your Heart

They went back to the house for lunch. Morse had severely underestimated how much work just… _travelling_ on a horse was, and he was immensely grateful of the fact that he hadn’t decided to join the mounted police when thinking about which profession he should pick. Not that it had ever been an option he would’ve seriously considered, but he was still grateful. By the late afternoon, his muscles were aching terribly.

Morse felt way less awkward around Hope than he had before, even if the tension wasn’t completely gone. It was pretty one-sided, had been since the first day. He probably had nothing to worry about, as long as he took care to keep his responses friendly and his eyes to himself when the three of them talked in the sitting room. (Four, if you counted Cheryl when she woke up from her nap, but she couldn’t really talk yet.)

Peter wasn’t making not staring at him easy, what with his habit of sitting like a model or some kind of classical statue and his smoking rate of one cigarette per hour, but it felt too tactless to ogle him _in front of his wife_.

“We’re gonna go and take a little walk in the garden with Cheryl”, Hope said at some point, after looking out the window to make sure the weather was still nice. It wouldn’t get dark in a while, so it was probably a good time to do so, but it still came out of the blue. “We’ll be back in about half an hour.”

“See you then”, Peter said, getting up to give Hope a kiss and letting Cheryl grab at his finger for a moment. Morse tried to not hunch his shoulders too visibly. He didn’t want to sulk like that, there was nothing to sulk about, but there he was, trying to push himself to the furthest corner of the sofa and longing for something he didn’t, _couldn’t_ , have. (He couldn’t even point out what it was.)

With a small wave and a smile, Hope shut the door. Peter stood there for a while, and Morse tried to look at him without having him notice. It wasn’t working very well.

“Oh, come on”, Peter said with a sigh, walked over, and sat down on the sofa next to him. Morse didn’t dare look at him anymore, so he chose to stare at his feet instead. “No need to look so heartbroken.”

Morse actually shivered at that, and it took him a moment to realise that it was out of _shame_. Peter had finally managed to hold on to a tiny shred of happiness, and he didn’t deserve his judging looks and frowns and jealousy for that.

For the first time, Morse realised that it probably wasn’t exactly the easiest situation for Peter either. He had no doubt Hope made Peter happy, but leaving all he’d known behind - Oxford, the police, even his ties and his suits and his ghastly-coloured polo shirts - to follow her to America couldn’t have been easy.

It was a fresh start, wiping the slate clean and trying to forget, but Morse knew Peter had to have lost something when he’d left. He didn’t dare guess at what it was, didn’t want to assume anything too serious, but Peter _had said_ he’d missed him. That had to count for something.

“I wasn’t - Peter, I’m _sorry_ ”, Morse said. “I can’t help it. That’s just… it’s not about you. That’s just how I am.”

It was the most he’d spoken his feelings out loud in months, _ever_ , really. At least to Peter - he couldn’t remember them being that open about anything, not even after Morse had got out of prison. Logically, they _should have_ , but when they’d finally seen each other again, they hadn’t been able to put much of anything to words.

The silence that Peter now gave him wasn’t comforting, it felt deafeningly cold, and Morse felt lonely. He didn’t dare look at Peter before he heard him clear his throat.

Peter inched closer on the sofa, holding out his hand. Morse looked at it for a moment before taking it into his own. It was a bit odd to say the least, but it calmed down the fluttery uneasy feeling in his chest. Holding hands was good, even if he couldn’t stop the thoughts in his head from running wild even with Peter’s help.

After a while spent deep in thought, Peter looked up at Morse. Sharp nose, sharper cheekbones, heavy brows still a bit furrowed.

“Believe me, Morse, if you were my girl, I would’ve married you. Someday”, Peter said, and it wasn’t at _all_ what Morse had been expecting.

He wanted to open his mouth and say that he hadn’t meant it like that, say that Peter didn’t have to pretend to make him feel better, say _something_ , anything, but Peter’s blue-green eyes were so sincere and insistent that he simply couldn’t. Didn’t want to, actually.

Morse wasn’t sure how to feel about it - very warm, certainly, all of a sudden, but _he had no idea what to think._ He swallowed hard.

“I… _oh_ ”, Morse managed to say. Peter smiled and raised his eyebrows, and Morse realised that he was probably sounding really flustered. Most likely getting red too, _again_.

“Yeah”, Peter said, stroking his hand. “I mean, if you’d wanted to. We could’ve even had some kind of weird Quaker wedding. Nobody saying anything for the whole time. Would’ve been very interesting.”

“I don’t think it works that way”, Morse said, voice barely audible. He wasn’t sure if he’d ever been to a ceremony like that as a child, but he was pretty certain that they wouldn’t differ from Anglican ones that much. Or any others, for that matter.

“Probably not”, Peter said. He took a breath and suddenly seemed to be very interested in his pocket. Looking for a cigarette out of habit, maybe, but his hand stopped when Morse looked at him.

“You know what. Come here”, Peter said. Morse leaned forward and wrapped his arms around Peter and held on to him and let him push him on his back, even though nearly all of his muscles seemed to protest against the whole notion of moving even an inch. It did end up being worth it, because he got a long kiss for his troubles. Another, when he dragged his hands along Peter’s back in the way he knew he liked, and a smaller peck on the corner of his mouth when he let out a gasp.

Morse winced a bit when Peter put his hand on his inner thigh, not rough but not exactly tender either, and very telling. It wasn’t unlike Peter at all, but he hadn’t remembered to expect that.

“Jesus, Peter”, he snapped. “Just because I physically _can’t_ sit with my thighs together right now, doesn’t mean I want you between them.”

It wasn’t that he _disliked_ the attention he was getting, Peter’s hands on his waist and chest, his wiry weight against him. Morse just couldn’t handle anything more physical than that, not while some of his muscles that he hadn't even known he had were so achy. That’s what you got from trying to keep your balance on horseback.

“No, no, just a little snog. I’m going easy on you”, Peter said, voice breathy against his neck. Morse buried his hands in Peter’s hair, _still_ marveling at how soft and _curly_ it was when it wasn’t slicked back and had grown out a bit. It wasn’t a look he’d ever imagined he’d see on Peter.

“Can’t fit but one sort of riding in one day when you’re just starting out, especially if you’re already sore”, Peter added fondly, pressing a kiss to his neck. Something that terrible and raunchy shouldn’t have made Morse’s ears burn so pleasantly, but it just so happened to do so anyway.

“... right”, Morse said, but didn't have time to question it further before Peter kissed him again.

Morse was probably going to start smelling of cigarettes _again_ , this time with a mix of horse as well. Hadn’t had to deal with that in a while.

(Morse still liked the taste of ash on his tongue more than he cared to admit. Peter wasn’t a bad kisser at all, probably because he’d devoted so much of his life to practicing.)

They were still lying in a tired tangle of limbs on the sofa when the door opened. Morse looked at Peter in alarm, not wanting to put them in an awkward situation, but he only got a lazy handwave as a response. Peter buried his face in the back of Morse's neck and breathed in.

“It’s just Hope. Don’t worry”, Peter said, running his fingers through Morse’s hair.

“It’s a bit early to be sleeping, isn’t it?“ Hope said as she came into the room.

“It’s just a nap”, Peter said, voice muffled against Morse’s neck. Morse turned his head a bit to look at Hope - he couldn’t tell what she was thinking, her voice didn’t really give anything away - and he was surprised to see she was smiling.

“Well, don’t fall asleep before I get back”, Hope said, already turning around. She was probably going to go feed Cheryl. “It’s nearly half past six.”

“Oh, right!” Peter said, eyes lighting up, and tried to sit up with a jolt. Morse let out a sound in protest when he was almost knocked off the sofa, but Peter caught him in time. He gave Peter a disapproving look. Moving that suddenly wasn’t only rude, but currently also _very painful_ , and Peter patted him on the shoulder apologetically.

“What happens at half past six?” Morse asked after he’d managed to sit up and arrange his legs in a way that they didn’t ache _overly_ badly.

“Star Trek”, Peter said. If Morse hadn’t known better, he’d thought that Peter was practically about to start rubbing his hands together. “You’ll love it.”

Morse raised an eyebrow. He had no idea what Peter was talking about, but there must have been _something_ to it if it made him so giddy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Modern Baseball's Hope.


	11. Breath Of Spring

Morse’s muscles ached for several days after the first ride, and despite what he’d promised, Peter wasn’t going easy on him at all. You couldn’t really get around the vast property if not on horseback, and as a consequence, Morse ended up having to hang onto Sally every day. He was supposed to be there to help with the work, after all.

It did get easier as time went by, and by the start of the next week Morse actually trusted Sally enough to ride her on his own, without being ponied by Peter. He still wasn’t sure if he trusted _himself_ , but he was slowly getting used to how the horse moved, so at the very least he was going to stay on the saddle.

Mornings were always early and nights stretched themselves late, but for entirely different reasons. Living on a farm was so much work that the first things needed to be done practically at dawn, and so that was when they usually woke up.

In the evenings, after they were finished with whatever work they were doing that day, they’d just sit and talk, Morse and Peter and Hope. Sometimes they turned on the radio, and more often the TV. Apparently, Peter was into all sorts of programmes, from the sci-fi series with things like warp drives and a starship called _Enterprise_ (thankfully not Endeavour) to all kinds of police shows, and he liked to keep up with them each week.

Morse didn’t do that much of the talking at first, but he did like to listen and just _be_. There wasn’t all that much to worry about in Wyoming, and Oxford was so far away that when he tried to think about the mess he’d left there, he found his thoughts wandering off to the smell of long grass in the morning sun and the way Peter kept adjusting his hat every time they went riding, his hair determined to escape from under it the best it could. For once, it was easy to let painful things slip away.

And slowly, as he got to know Hope and re-found his footing with Peter, it became easier to actually tell them what he was thinking about.

Hope was going to finish her thesis for the University of Wyoming when Cheryl would be a bit older, in a year or two. Laramie was a couple of hours away, but she said she’d manage. After all, she could do quite a lot of her research at the farm, even if it meant hauling towering piles of law books and earlier studies back from the university library.

“It’s closer than going back to Oxford”, Hope said, earning a grin from Peter and a huff of agreement from Morse.

“Not that there’s anything _wrong_ with England, but home is home”, she added.

If home was where the heart was, Morse was becoming increasingly conflicted with where his was with each passing day. He’d spent most of his life letting everyone and everything steal his heart, from Wagner to old words on old paper to the girl he’d been going to marry, the one he still didn’t dare think of by her name, and then Peter. Rather ironic for a policeman, but that’s just how he was, and he never really got it back from any of them.

The nights were drawn out even further by the fact that Peter really liked to come to him in the dead of night with the flimsiest of excuses. Once it had been to _ask for help with taking off his shirt_ , and Morse had actually rolled his eyes at that. The bed in the guest room wasn’t all that big, but it the two of them could fit there for a moment without too much trouble. Peter clearly enjoyed the fact that after they were done, Morse couldn’t do anything but stay close to him lest he risk falling off the bed. It was a petty way of showing affection, but it was _something_ , and Morse liked it because of that.

/ / /

The Tuesday morning a couple of weeks after he’d arrived was much like the others, only this time Peter didn’t come wake him up to help with whatever they were doing first that morning. Morse managed to get his eyes open by himself, though slightly later than usual. After a moment spent in a state of drowsy confusion, he got up and got dressed before making his way to the kitchen.

Hope was standing by the counter, coffee cup in hand, not particularly awake yet. She was probably drinking it black - judging by her messy bun, she needed it, too. Curiously, she was still wearing a bit of red lipstick. Seeing how tired she was made Morse seriously consider pouring himself a cup as well, but he decided against it. Tea was safer.

“Morning”, Morse said quietly. Peter was nowhere to be seen. Hope lifted her head and blinked once before actually realising who she was looking at. Her eyes crinkled when she smiled at him, and it was hard not to answer with a smile of his own.

“Morning. Sleep well?” Hope asked, leaning back against the counter and taking another sip of her coffee. Morse followed her hand with his eyes when she lifted the cup, trying not to stare at the wedding ring. She had lithe hands, and her nails were short, but painted a bright yellow.

“Pretty alright. You?” Morse said sheepishly, after realising she was still expecting an answer.

“Had a bit of a rough night, actually”, Hope said. Morse frowned - right, it was kind of evident on her face. It was probably a bit unkind, or at least very blunt, to make her spell it out to him. Morse just wasn’t very good with small talk. (Or any talk, really, but that was beside the point.)

“... sorry to hear that”, Morse said. Hope nodded. It was silent for a moment, and Morse didn’t know what to do with himself to make standing there less uncomfortable.

“Where’s, uh -” he started, but Hope understood what he was after embarrassingly quickly.

“Oh, Pete had to go sort out a mishap. Daisy’s got herself stuck in a fence”, Hope said. Morse raised an eyebrow, and Hope tilted her head before realising that he didn’t know what she was talking about.

“A cow”, Hope clarified. “She came in fifth in a state-wide competition a few years back. Very pretty, but too curious for her own good.”

That didn’t sound overly serious, which was good. Morse didn’t know whether he would’ve been much help with that, so it was probably better that Peter had gone alone, but such a change to their normal morning routine still felt odd.

“I haven’t gotten around to making breakfast yet. I’m afraid it’s going to take a while”, Hope said, rubbing her eyes.

“No, it’s… I could help you if you’d like”, Morse said. He was already standing there, so might as well make himself useful. He wasn’t very good at cooking, just barely managed to feed himself most days, but he had a feeling that Peter wasn’t any better at it. Hope was probably used to it by now.

“Why, thank you. I’d appreciate it”, Hope said.

Morse got a kettle boiling for tea. They were both sluggish in their movements, but the warm steam and the sounds of drawers opening and pots clanking together at least kind of woke Morse up.

“Well, how are you liking the Wild West so far?” Hope asked, breaking an egg onto the frying pan. Morse huffed, amused at the choice in words.

“Not as wild as I expected, but I think it’s a good thing”, Morse said. “Keeps my mind off things. Haven’t had that luxury in a while.”

Hope nodded thoughtfully. The kitchen wasn’t all-too spacious, so she brushed against Morse when she walked past him to open a cupboard to get some plates out. She smelled of coffee and old wood and some summer flower.

Their hands touched briefly when Hope reached out to turn the eggs on the pan. Morse glanced at their hands - his was awkwardly red and angular, Hope’s sun-tanned.

“Oh, sorry”, Hope said, pulling her hand away.

“It’s alright”, Morse said. Hope opened her mouth, about to add something, but thought otherwise when they heard the front door open. Then came familiar footsteps, which seemed to be in a bit of a hurry. Morse recognised the clanking of the oddly high heels, and it _still_ felt funny.

“Hope, babe, I’m going to need some -”

Peter stared at them, a surprised look on his face. He’d rolled his shirt-sleeves up, and even after seeing him in them countless times, Morse still couldn’t get over the fact that _he was wearing blue jeans_. It was the most not-Peter-ish look he’d ever seen on Peter, but somehow he made it work.

“Morse”, Peter simply said. “Didn’t realise you were awake.”

“Good morning to you, too”, Morse mumbled.

“He’s helping with the food”, Hope said, smiling and turning to look at Morse for a moment. Peter raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.

“Have we got any pliers in here?” Peter asked.

“I think so”, Hope said, already walking over to a closet in the corner of the room. She opened the door and dug around for a bit before turning around and handing Peter the tool.

“Thanks”, Peter said. He proceeded to grab a firm hold of Hope’s waist and kiss her. Hope let out a muffled laugh, but held on and tugged lightly at Peter’s hair anyway.

Morse tried to focus on the stove and not stare at them, but he couldn’t help but glance at them quickly when they’d parted, looking at each other with sly eyes. Peter’s lips were stained red from a couple of places.

“Come here, Morse”, Peter said after contemplating something for a moment. “I’ve got something for you.”

Morse turned around. Hope walked past him, still a bit flustered, pulling out lipstick from her pocket to fix her make-up.

When Morse was at an arm’s length from Peter, he found himself being grabbed and _pushed against a wall_. He let out a surprised yelp, and didn’t have any time to process it further before realising that he should’ve been running his hands down Peter’s bare forearms when he pressed his ash-tasting lips against Morse’s. And so he did just that. It felt surprisingly sweet, _soft_ , even though Peter's lips were very firm and insistent against his.

Peter pulled away and patted him on the shoulder in a friendly manner, _which felt very out of place for the situation_ , before smiling at Hope one more time and walking out the door like nothing had happened. Morse was left leaning against the wall in a light stupor. It took him a while to come to his senses enough to realise Hope was staring at him curiously.

“Morse, you have a bit of -”

“Oh”, Morse said, and lifted a hand to his lips. His face was burning. He’d suffered a good deal of blushing in the past few weeks, now that he was spending time around Peter again. He’d almost forgotten how it felt, during the months in Oxford without him. His life had certainly been a lot less embarrassing.

“Let me get that for you”, Hope said. She pulled out a handkerchief and stepped closer to press it against Morse’s lips. She had steady hands and a firm but gentle touch.

“He does that a lot”, Hope said, shaking her head but still smiling. “Not really the most considerate of men when it comes to lipstick, but I manage.”

Hope probably had a _lot_ of experience wiping lipstick away from places it didn’t belong, because she was done rather quickly.

“There. Thanks for the help”, Hope said, lifting her hand to Morse’s cheek for a moment before letting go.

“The same to you”, Morse said. They looked at each other for a while in contemplative silence, before Hope turned to look at the stove over her shoulder.

“Pete’s probably not going to come back for a while. We can start eating”, she said. Morse nodded at that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from Jolene, by Dolly Parton.


	12. Shadow From The Starlight

“We should do one more check around the pastures today”, Peter said.

Morse looked up from the crossword puzzle he was in the middle of filling. Neither Hope nor Peter really cared for them, so he had the latest _Casper Star-Tribune_ all to himself. The peace and quiet of the countryside felt nice for a change, but after so long, he was glad for the opportunity to use his brain a little.

“Really? It’s getting dark”, Morse said, not objecting to the idea but wondering whether they’d be able to see much of anything at that hour. The sun was already setting.

“I’m sure we’ll manage”, Peter said, and that was the end of it. By now, Morse was quite used to riding, and he didn’t even have to squeeze the reins so hard that his knuckles turned white. He actually quite enjoyed it, sometimes.

The field they rode over was still a faint gold, even though the sky was slowly turning into a dark orange. Most of the cows were lying down in small groups. Peter got off his horse to pat one on the back.

“There’s a good girl”, he said to the black-and-white cow. “You’re alright now, aren’t you?”

Morse raised an eyebrow before realising that this was probably Daisy, the one that had managed to get stuck in a fence a couple of days back.

He didn’t know much about judging cattle, so he couldn’t say anything about her looks. Neither did Peter, probably, but at the very least, she seemed friendly.

It took a while for Morse to realise that they were riding a bit further than they usually went. The falling darkness made everything strange and new, even though the half-moon was starting to peek out from behind the clouds.

“Where are we going?” Morse asked, after urging Sally to go a bit closer to Peter. He didn’t want to shout, even though there probably wasn’t anyone around to be bothered by it.

“Just a moment and then we’re there”, Peter said. Morse nodded at that, but didn’t inquire further, even though he was getting curious. That’s what Peter was probably looking for with such a vague answer, after all.

They kept riding until they reached a small hill. By that time, the sun was so far down that only the last few beams remained. Surprisingly, there were a couple of trees on the hill - the odd kind of twisted pines that they had a lot of in Wyoming - which was very different from the open fields they’d gone across.

“We can leave the horses here”, Peter said, already sliding off Flash. He reached into the saddlebag and pulled out some rope.

Morse got off Sally a bit slower. He did _trust_ her by now, but he wasn’t going to start doing any wild stunts anytime soon.

“And now…?” Morse asked after they’d tied the horses to a tree.

“And now we climb. Morse and Pete went up the hill”, Peter said.

“That doesn’t even rhyme”, Morse muttered.

“Wasn’t supposed to”, Peter said.

It was still warm - nights in July were probably never particularly chill on the open fields - but there was a slight wind in the air. The night was silent, save for some crickets, branches swaying and their own footsteps on the grass.

It didn’t take them long to reach the top of the hill. Peter sat down, and Morse followed suite. The dry grass wasn’t terribly long, but it still felt a bit itchy when Morse laid his palms against it.

“Look up”, Peter said, so Morse did.

His eyes had already got used to the dark quite well during the ride, so when he looked at the almost pitch-black sky, he could instantly see more stars than he remembered seeing in a long while. Countless small white dots blinking back at him.

They were probably different stars too, at least some of them. Wyoming was quite a lot further south than Oxford. Morse recognised the bears and the dogs, but some of the other constellations weren’t as familiar. As he kept looking, even more stars appeared, until it seemed like there was no corner of sky that was completely dark.

“You’re so beautiful when you’re thinking”, Peter said. Morse turned his head to look at him. He’d lost his train of thought, so he might as well look at Peter and his sharp pale face and his thin lips, curved into a smile.

That gave Peter a reason to put one hand on his shoulder, another behind his head, and pull him close for a kiss. Morse actually smiled at that. It was hard to manage that with Peter’s mouth against his, but he did his best.

“Are you -” Peter started after they’d pulled apart, but Morse shut him up with another kiss. In part, it was a petty revenge for stealing his attention, but on the other hand, Morse also just happened to like the way Peter kissed him back even harder. Not much of a punishment, or at least not one that Morse was particularly hesitant to endure. He liked it a lot.

“You were saying something”, Morse said, after finally relenting and pulling away. Peter's hair was a mess.

“I forgot”, Peter said, hand on Morse’s cheek. They’d ended up on the ground, but it was probably for the best, as it was even easier to look at the stars from there. Peter shook his head and let out an amused sigh before pulling out a cigarette and his lighter. Morse didn’t even bother to question it. That was just something Peter _did_ , without thinking twice about where or when or who with. It was fine.

“It happens”, Morse said, eyes drawn to Peter’s mouth when he lit the cigarette and drew it to his lips. Peter took a long drag, putting his free hand on Morse’s shoulder, and blew out a cloud of smoke. They watched it float in the air above them.

“Are you running from something, Morse?” Peter asked. It was kind of hard to make out what he was saying, since he had the fag in his mouth again, but once Morse realised what he was asking, he turned to look at Peter.

“What do you mean?” Morse asked.

“You had that look in your eye when you got here”, Peter said. “The one you sometimes get when you’re trying to ignore the world. I saw a good deal of that back in Oxford.”

Morse frowned. Frankly, he wasn’t sure of the reason he’d come to Wyoming himself. He’d needed to get away, certainly, and he’d wanted to see Peter, but it was uncomfortable to think of how much of his need to get away had been because of Joan.

Or all the Thursdays, really. Mr Thursday had been distant, and even though Morse didn’t always see that much of Win, she was clearly terribly unhappy with how things had turned out. No doubt that the times were hard for them, as both of their children had just left home, but it all made Morse very uneasy

He didn’t know how to deal with it. His normal approach to everything never worked with people, because they weren’t something you could solve and sort out. You just had to learn to work around them, trying to say the right things at the right time. It had always been pretty hard.

“Well, I… yes”, Morse said. There was no going around it. People often ran away from him - for God's sake, Peter had done it too - so it didn't seem unreasonable to be the one to run for once.

He'd stood in front of a man-eating tiger without backing down. It didn't make him any less of a man to want to run away for a couple months, _just the summer_.

“What is it?” Peter asked. Morse shook his head.

“It's… quite a lot of things, actually. I just needed some fresh air.”

And to be completely, terrifyingly honest, he’d needed Peter, too. He'd known he still had his friendship and his help, should Morse need it and be bold enough to ask, so he’d just mustered up the courage and done it. It had been a stroke of dumb luck, earth-shatteringly dumb, that he’d also got the chance to love Peter again, and that Peter loved him in return.

Peter seemed to consider pressing the matter further for a while, but then he saw something in Morse's eyes which convinced him not to. He probably did remember how Morse had looked at Joan, and how he hadn’t generally been terribly lucky in love, ever.

“Well, lucky that you came here, then”, Peter said instead. There was no judgment in his voice, and Morse was grateful for that. “We’ve got plenty.”

A silent moment passed. A gentle wind made the long grass sway, and Morse snuggled up to Peter, even if it wasn’t particularly cold at all. Peter stumped his cigarette and lifted his other hand to Morse’s hair. They would probably both smell of smoke for the rest of the night regardless of whether they touched each other or not, so Morse just let Peter run his fingers through his hair. He hadn’t bothered to put on the stetson he’d been provided, since the sun wasn’t blazing at them anymore, but Peter was very faithful to his new style.

Morse pulled off Peter’s hat, simply because he _still_ wasn’t used to the natural almost-curls he sported when he didn’t slick his hair back. His hair was dark and soft and _fluffy_ , and it just wasn’t how Morse remembered Peter.

“Do you miss it?” Morse asked after a while.

“What?” Peter asked. Morse cleared his throat - oh God, it was probably the smoke getting to him, that was one thing he hadn’t _terribly_ missed about Peter - before clarifying.

“Cowley”, Morse said. “Police work.”

Peter thought for a moment, his brows furrowing. Morse kind of started to regret the question - he didn’t want to open a can of worms. It was just an innocent thought. He’d wondered about it for a while.

“Maybe”, Peter said. “I’m not sure. I don’t miss the stress, but the times we got things right… it felt good to be of some help. To people.”

“Well, you make a great cowboy, too”, Morse said, before the silence stretched too much. It wasn’t _uncomfortable_ per se, but he didn’t want to think about work any longer than he had to. His mind would start running fast, but in circles, dwelling on what could’ve been and what was and what could be, and the night was far too late for that. Peter smiled at him, and it felt good to focus on that.

“You’re not too bad yourself at this point. Which reminds me…” Peter said, tone very thoughtful, but his eyes were so intense all of a sudden that Morse got a good hang of what he had in mind. It wasn’t exactly hard to tell. Peter pushed himself up on his arms and leaned over him.

“... yes?” Morse asked. Peter looked at him almost coyly through his dark lashes before pressing his lips against his chin, then his cheek, _practically everywhere but his mouth_. Morse clung onto his arms, sliding his hands under Peter’s sleeves.

“You sore?” Peter asked, one hand slowly but surely travelling down Morse’s chest and stomach and finally ending up on his inner thigh.

“No”, Morse said, which prompted Peter to roll over next to him and pull him on top before either of them could produce any more coherent thoughts.

“Giddy-up, then”, Peter said, hands already on Morse’s belt. Morse felt his face heat up, and even though it was too dark to see for sure, Peter’s cheek felt warm, too, when Morse laid a hand on it.

“Oh my God, Peter. Way to lift the mood”, Morse muttered, but still leaned down to kiss the bastard. Peter let out a _whine_ , arching his long, elegant neck when Morse pulled on his hair lightly, and the sound went straight to Morse’s crotch.

“Besides, aren’t I supposed to say that?” Morse said, shifting in Peter’s lap rather unsubtly. (To be honest, he practically pressed his hips flush against Peter’s entirely on purpose, but _the bastard deserved it_.)

“Me being the cowboy and all”, Morse added, hands on Peter’s chest.

“ _Yes_ , whatever, just get _on_ with it”, Peter hissed. He appeared to have a hard time deciding what to do with his hands.

In all fairness, Morse understood. He, too, wanted everything at once, wanted to feel every inch of Peter against his own skin.

“Well, since you asked so nicely”, Morse said. Peter awarded his mouthiness with a sharp tug at his belt, and after that, it didn’t take too long for it to come off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from John Denver - Rocky Mountain High.
> 
> Back when I started writing this fic, I had no idea I would spend a good while googling newspapers in 60s Wyoming just for a small detail. XD It was worth it, though.


	13. Fuel To The Flame

The next week was rainy, again. Not exactly pouring, but there was mist over the fields every morning. and they stayed wet for the rest of the day. Hope said it was good for the crops, and Morse couldn’t say he wasn’t used to it, being from _England_ and all, but it really wasn’t the weather to spend all day riding in.

So, after doing everything they had to to keep the farm running, they stayed inside and listened to the radio quite a lot. The county had its own station, and with enough tinkering with the antenna, they could hear some others, too. It was mostly country music non-stop, with the occasional news report in between, and even though Morse would’ve greatly preferred something more… well, _operatic_ , it was fascinating to get a glimpse of a life very different from his own.

One night, they were sitting and talking like usual, Cheryl in Hope’s lap. She seemed to like music a lot.

At one point a slower song started playing, and Peter took his hand. Morse raised an eyebrow - not that he didn’t _like_ holding hands with him (he did, but it was so sappy that he’d never dare say that out loud), but it came out of the blue.

“Who’s this?” Morse asked.

“Skeeter Davis”, Hope said. “She’s from Kentucky, I think. A couple of my friends went to see her in New Mexico a few years back. I’d already left for Oxford.”

“Dance with me, Morse”, Peter said, pulling him up. Morse looked at him in disbelief, not entirely sure he’d heard right. He felt his face heat up.

“What?” Morse asked, looking at Hope in alarm. He had a feeling she should’ve been the one to dance with Peter, being his wife and all. But when their eyes met, Morse saw that Hope was trying to hold back a laugh. She and Peter were _both_ amused by his squirming. Oh God.

“Please, go ahead”, Hope said.

“No, no, I’m not very -” Morse started, but Peter looked at him so dismissively that he suddenly didn’t know how to finish the sentence.

“Do you think I’m any better?” Peter said.

To be honest, Morse _did._ He’d seen Peter with Joan that one night, and even if he wasn’t exactly the Fred Astaire of their generation with his moves, at least he was _trying_. Morse didn’t know how to respond to that, so he just stared at Peter, practically open-mouthed.

“Let’s just try not to step on each other’s toes too much. We’ll be fine”, Peter said, wrapping his arms around him. Morse nodded, face burning so bad that he couldn’t get any words out.

Peter pulled him close, and they both tried to put a hand to the other’s waist at the same time. Morse looked up at Peter, grabbing his hand and running his fingers up his arm.

“I’ll lead”, Morse said. He wouldn’t know what to do otherwise, and even though Peter _did_ have a bit more experience, Morse wasn’t feeling particularly excited by the prospect of following his uneducated lead. He had a feeling that some of the moves Peter knew were less about dancing and more about taking every chance he could get to touch and grab and press against whoever he was dancing with.

“Oh”, Peter said, raising his eyebrows. “ _That’s_ new. Alright, then.”

He made sure to brush his hand against the side of Morse’s hips before lifting it to his shoulder. Morse glanced at Hope, but didn’t have too much time to dwell on her smirk. The first verse of the song had already passed, and they were at the apparent chorus now.

 _Every time you kiss me you add fuel to the flame._ Morse certainly felt like he was burning up, what with the way his face was probably still as red as his hair. He took a tentative step forward, and surprisingly, Peter stepped back before Morse stepped on his foot. They started moving in steps so small that it felt more like just rocking back and forth. But he did like it, especially when Peter sighed and rested his head on Morse’s shoulder. He was practically wrapped around Morse, hugging him close, and something about it was so _good_ and soothing that Morse let out a long breath, one that he’d been holding for days. Maybe weeks, even.

“You should’ve come to our wedding“, Peter said against his cheek. “I don’t think anyone would’ve batted an eye, had the groom shared one dance with his best man.”

“You can’t know that”, Morse said quietly. He didn’t want to kill the mood, but he still remembered how they’d had to hide everything carefully, back in Oxford. And he _was_ feeling bad about missing the wedding, but none of them had really been able to afford to fly him to Wyoming for such a short while. Especially when Hope hadn’t even met him back then. (It was Morse’s own fault for how he hadn’t been able to swallow his pride and ignore the heartache and come inside the pub for Peter’s going-away drinks, and that made it sting even more.)

“I know I can’t”, Peter said, drawing him back into the present. His breath was hot against Morse’s cheek and ear. “That’s why I’m dancing with you now.”

The song eventually came to its end. Peter pulled away from Morse, only to lean against him again and give him a long kiss, hands sliding to his waist to hold on harder.

“Thank you very much”, Peter said. Morse simply looked at Peter wide-eyed, lips and cheeks tingling.

Morse was too distracted to hear what the radio announcer was saying, but he did break out of his daze when a new song started. It was a bit faster than the previous one, but still very… country.

He glanced at Peter, who still had his arms around him, and then at Hope, who had crossed her legs. She seemed to be waiting for something.

“Oh, Hope, do you…” Morse started when he realised what it was about. Hope smiled and nodded before getting up, Cheryl still in her arms.

“Hold her for me, will you”, Hope said, walking towards him.

“Of course”, Morse said, and before he even knew it, he had an armful of small and squirming in his hands. He gave Hope a small smile before backing down to the sofa to give her and Peter room.

It didn’t take too long for Morse to realise that Peter’s moves hadn’t really improved from what they’d been a couple of years back. Not that there was anything _wrong_ with them - it was certainly better than anything Morse could manage - but they were still… original. A lot of twisting.

But Hope had probably gone dancing with him often enough, so she knew how to work around it. She seemed quite experienced, too, which made Morse wonder what young people usually did for fun in the middle of rural Wyoming. Barn dances seemed almost too cliché to consider, but he couldn’t rule out the possibility.

Cheryl grabbed at Morse’s hair, and with it, his attention. Letting her lean against his chest suddenly didn’t seem as good an idea as it had, so Morse sat down and cradled her in his arms instead.

He didn’t remember how old she was, and to be honest, he couldn’t tell by looking at her, either. A baby, either way. She had soft, dark hair and surprisingly dark eyes, and Morse was getting more sure by the day that she was going to get Peter’s heavy brows when she grew up. The thought made him smile, still.

As the song neared its end, Peter actually lifted Hope up and spun her around, earning a giggle from her. Morse didn’t know whether to smile or roll his eyes at that - Peter being a show-off wasn’t anything new.

“Christ, Pete”, Hope said, still laughing when she was back on her feet. “ _Jesus_. At least warn me before sweeping me off my feet, _literally_.”

“I’ll try to remember”, Peter said. They were both a bit red and more than a bit breathless, and Morse looked away when they kissed. He couldn’t help it.

He tried to not look out of place as Peter sat down next to him. When Morse turned his head, Peter was looking at him and Cheryl curiously. It was hard to tell what he was thinking.

“I can take her now”, Peter said. Morse nodded.

“Of course”, he said. Even though there was something very heartwarming about holding a baby, _Peter’s child_ , Morse was more than happy to hand her over. (Especially when Cheryl let out an ear-piercing squeal, probably very excited about the prospect of getting to pull at her father’s rolled-up sleeves.)

“Well?” Hope asked. Morse looked up at her, and only now did he realise that she was still standing in the middle of the room, hands on her hips. And not only that, but she was also looking at him expectantly.

“Aren’t you going to dance with me?” she said.

That took Morse by surprise. He glanced at Peter, who was grinning, probably because Morse was so thick that he couldn’t pick up on anything unless a girl explicitly asked him for something. It wasn’t anything new under the sun, but it was just as embarrassing each time.

“Oh, I - I mean, if you truly want to”, Morse said. “I’m afraid I’m pretty terrible at it, though.”

“I’ll lead if I have to. Besides, I can guarantee you it’s not going to be the worst I’ve had to put up with”, Hope said. “We’ve had quite a few… well, _pitfalls_ with Pete.”

“That’s just plain rude”, Peter said, feigning shock. Morse let out an amused huff.

“Alright”, Morse said, getting up. “Depends on the song, though. I won’t be able to do much of anything if it’s too… snazzy.”

He walked up to Hope, and realised his mistake a little too late. The radio announcer was still talking about some musical guest they were going to have in the studio next week - Morse didn’t recognise the name - and because of that, he and Hope had to awkwardly stand there and look at each other while waiting for the song to start.

Eventually, a man started singing, breaking the silence. Hope stepped closer and put her hands on his shoulders, and then they just… started. It was a bit cautious at first, at least on Morse’s part, but they settled into a comfortable rhythm soon enough.

 _It's the little things that make me love you so._ It really wasn’t the most comfortable thing to hear while he was dancing with another man’s wife, _while he was watching_. Morse didn’t want to be rude to Hope, but he still glanced at Peter a couple of times. Sometimes he was preoccupied with trying to keep Cheryl’s hands away from his breast pocket, which was probably a very good thing, given that Peter always had cigarettes on him. Other times he was just looking at Morse and Hope with a mixture of smug satisfaction and something else on his face. If Morse didn’t know better, he would’ve said it was envy. ( _Desire_.)

Hope looked him deep in the eyes, and Morse didn’t know what she was expecting to see. He still didn’t look away.

“I didn’t realise you had freckles on your nose”, Hope said, hands still on his shoulders. It was a slightly odd observation, but for some reason, it made Morse’s face heat up a little.

“Few people do”, Morse said quietly, realising a little too late that it wasn’t a very intelligent thing to say. Hope smiled anyway, and leaned slightly against him.

She was beautiful. Morse had noticed it pretty much the moment he’d met her, but it had been a different sort of admiration, of the heart-wrenching variety. It had made him wonder what Hope gave Peter, made him think about things like the effortless way she just _said_ things out loud and smiled easily and brushed her hair behind her ear. Morse had mourned for everything he didn’t have, and some petty part of him had wondered if that was the reason he could never make people stay.

He wasn’t yearning for what she had, not like that, not anymore. Instead, he had a vague idea of who she was and what she wanted, and an even more vague idea about what _he_ wanted.

They both had Peter. Morse could see it in the way Peter looked at them, but it wasn’t because of some successful conquest or a competition that had reached its end in an unconventional way. Peter was theirs because he chose to be, and in a way, it was very comforting.

Morse wanted to kiss Hope. He wanted to _feel_ her, to know her for who she was instead of who he’d thought she’d be. After the song ended, Hope looked at him with bright eyes and parted lips, words not quite said out loud but hanging in the air between them. It would’ve been so easy, but something in the back of his mind was stopping him from doing it.

(Probably Peter and Joan and _Monica_ , for starters, and everybody and everything else his heart belonged or _had belonged_ to. He wondered whether he had any part of it to himself anymore.)

The moment was over before he could make up his mind. Hope let go of him, the look on her face not exactly disappointed, but still… thoughtful. Morse felt his own smile fade.

“I don’t understand what you were talking about before. You’re not bad at this at all”, Hope said. Morse knew she was talking about dancing, and there was no sarcasm in her voice, but it still felt like a jab at how awkward he was with words and feelings and people.

“Thank you”, Morse said. He couldn’t look straight at her anymore.

The radio announcer was still talking, even though the song had ended what felt like lifetimes ago. It was probably time for the evening news.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The songs mentioned in this chapter are Sonny James' "It's The Little Things" from 1965, and Skeeter Davis' "Fuel To The Flame", from 1967, even though I'll admit right away that I've listened to Dolly Parton's cover of it a lot more. (Apparently, this fic uncovered some hidden Dolly obsession in me, lmao.)
> 
> The chapter title is, of course, from Fuel To The Flame.


	14. The New Thing

It was sunny for a couple of days, but one night at the end of the week, the sky quickly turned into a dark, wet ochre as the sun first started showing signs of setting. It was a nicer summer sight to look at than the everyday English grey for sure, even beautiful in a way, but it made the roads and fields muddy and flat, which wasn’t very appealing.

Cheryl had been fussy for the whole week, screaming on the top of her lungs more often than not, so it was a relief when they got her to sleep soon after dinner, and she actually _stayed_ asleep. Morse had stayed up on a couple of nights to sing to her, and it was honestly a relief that he probably wouldn’t have to do that again tonight.

And so Morse, Peter and Hope had the night to themselves. They took out a bottle of whiskey, pouring a glass for each of them, and settled themselves on the sofa in the sitting room. Morse initially wondered if he maybe should’ve taken the armchair instead, to give Hope and Peter space, but they were having none of it. With Peter between Hope and Morse, it wasn’t _terribly_ awkward, just a bit… odd. Especially since Hope leaned against Peter practically right away, letting him wrap his arm around her shoulders. Morse tried not to stare, but it was hard not to notice the way Hope looked at Peter, and even more difficult to pretend not to see how she looked at _Morse_. It happened during the small, natural pauses in conversation, but also when she was talking, and _especially_ when she was listening to him talk. Hope’s eyes were always curious, almost looking like she was trying to read him, gently flip through his pages. It was _odd_.

After a while of skirting around the issue, Peter just turned to look at Morse, laying his hand on his shoulder. Morse’s eyes trailed along his arm for a moment, and a slight flush crept up his neck. Peter noticed, smiling and brushing his knuckles against the side of Morse’s neck.

“Come on, Morse. Get in here”, Peter said. Morse hesitated, but leaned against Peter anyway, laying his head on his shoulder. His neck smelled of sweat and hay and… soap? Probably soap. (Not cologne, even though Morse was subconsciously looking for it all the same.) Peter lifted a hand to Morse’s upper arm, squeezing tight.

“Nothing’s enough for you, is it?” Morse said, not accusing, but actually quite amused. Peter raised an eyebrow.

“Hey, just because I’m holding my wife, doesn’t mean I can’t want to have you closer”, Peter said. He leaned in to kiss Morse on his cheek, just the slightest brush of his lips, probably to prove that he meant his words. Morse let out a huff, but in all honesty, he was happier about it than he cared to admit.

They continued on like that, settling into that three-way almost-hug surprisingly comfortably. Peter had one of his arms around Hope, the other around Morse, and it wasn’t bad at all to lean against his shoulder like Morse had used to, during stretched-out nights in Oxford, with Peter barely staying awake against him as Morse worked out the last details of their newest case, sometimes going as far as sitting on his bed in the dead of night with the reading light on and the notebook in his lap, Peter’s hand getting close to his and them both pretending not to notice.

Those had been good times, but with each passing day, Morse found himself thinking that the times he was living right now were pretty good as well. Peaceful, at least when Cheryl actually managed to stay asleep for the night. She wasn’t a bad kid at all, just… small. Tiny and still very confused at the world around her.

Morse shouldn’t have been one to judge. He’d had a couple of decades to get used to it all, and he still sometimes felt like screaming. That’s what you got for thinking too much, probably.

“Hold up, I’ll get a refill. Stay where you are”, Peter said, at some point in time. It took awhile for them all to untangle their arms from around each other, but they eventually managed. When Peter finally got up, he left an awkward, warm, empty space on the sofa. He turned to look at Morse and Hope one last time, smirking, before walking out the door to the kitchen.

“Morse. Come here”, Hope said as soon as they were alone, face a bit red from the drink they'd had. Her eyes were twinkling, and she had a smile on her face. Morse looked at her for a second, confused, but obliged and leaned closer.

He’d tried not to avoid Hope too obviously ever since the dance they’d shared and the kiss they hadn’t, but it wasn’t working very well. The more he tried to focus on everything else, like Peter and pretending that he knew how to ride a horse and the occasional crossword puzzle, the more he noticed himself fixating on the tiniest details.

It was an impractical drawback of a constantly ticking mind like his was. Even though it made solving crimes and mysteries and constantly changing puzzles easier for him than they were for most people, it also made matters of the heart more painful than they ought to have been. Or, well, when not outright _painful_ , they were at least… difficult. Too tangled up to deal with.

But now Hope was looking at him, very close, and despite all the mostly unnecessary awkwardness that Morse had managed to wedge between them during the time he’d known her, she didn’t look uneasy at all. A bit curious, perhaps, but very much like she was happy to be where she currently was. It made Morse’s heart flutter, just for a second.

“I want to know what the fuss is about”, Hope finally said, contemplative, but her tone was suddenly more cheeky than it usually was. Morse raised an eyebrow.

“Since Pete seems to like your lips almost as much as mine”, Hope said.

“Is that right?” Morse asked, his cheeks burning. At least he now knew why Hope had been acting so odd all night, all tentative looks and touches so light he’d thought them accidental. He really was oblivious to things sometimes.

“Yeah”, Hope said. “Been thinking about it for a good while now.”

Morse’s face felt scorching hot already, but when Hope leaned against him and put her soft hand on his collarbone, the burning grew even stronger. She half-sat in Morse’s lap, taking a moment to inspect his face thoroughly. It made him a bit self-conscious, to be looked at so intensely by someone who was so close all of a sudden, and so warm.

“What is it?” he asked quietly, when Hope kept smiling at him, not saying a word. The rain was still tapping at the roof, a steady pattering sound. Hope shook her head.

“Oh, nothing”, Hope said, hands on his shoulders. She looked so thoughtful that Morse couldn’t quite believe what she’d said. He could feel Hope breathe softly against his lips, but he didn't bother to close his mouth, which was half-open from the surprising turn the evening had taken.

“It’s just that… you're so _pretty_ , Morse”, Hope finally said, holding on to him. Morse drew in a long breath, and Hope smiled at that even wider. “Sweet as a summer morning.”

And with that, she kissed him, soft red lips pressing gently against his. For a moment, Morse wasn’t sure what to do, but then he was burying his hands in her curly hair and Hope tugged at the buttons of his shirt and slid her hands under it and made Morse gasp.

Hope let him catch his breath for a moment, but soon leaned forward to kiss him again, hands on his waist. This time she grazed his bottom lip with her teeth after a while, and while Morse hadn’t been prepared for that particular kind of enthusiasm, _he did like it_ , a lot.

But then something made Hope stop and turn her head. Morse tried to be polite about it - he wasn’t some Peter Jakes, going around kissing people while they were trying to think - but he still didn’t let go of Hope.

Morse soon realised that the reason for the abrupt pause was actually… well, Peter Jakes, who’d cleared his throat.

“I swear I only left you for half a second”, Peter said, glass in hand. His eyebrows had climbed high, and he looked like he’d just received some _very_ good, albeit surprising, news.

“And look what happened.”

Hope just scoffed at that, and Morse took it as a sign to pull her closer again quite unsubtly. Peter stared at his hands as he did so, and then looked at Hope. Her mouth curved into a smirk.

“Pete, honey, you’ll have to learn to share him”, Hope said, running her hands up Morse’s back.

“He’s cute. Not a bad kisser, either.”

“Don’t know if he’ll be able to handle this much attention, that’s all”, Peter said as he finally sat down beside them, setting his glass down on the table. Morse’s thoughts shouldn't have immediately turned to what Peter was intending to use his hands for, instead, now that they were free, but it just so happened that they did. He stared at them, and when Peter noticed it, he smiled.

“I don’t want the poor bloke to melt into a puddle”, Peter said.

“Oh, I can handle you alright”, Morse said. The fact that his face was still terribly red didn’t detract from the statement, not in the slightest. Hope smiled against his cheek and ran her hand down his chest, pushing him back until his back hit something. It turned out to be Peter's chest.

“We’ll see about that”, Peter said, breath at the back or Morse's neck so suddenly that it made him shiver.

Peter smelled of whiskey, they all probably did, and somehow the slight hint of stubble on his jaw and cheeks felt _good_ against Morse's skin, even more so than usually. Rough and hard and raw. It made Morse wish Hope and Peter would push him down on the sofa - or even the floor, honestly, at this point - and just have their way with him. It didn’t take him long to realise that his train of thought was on a very dangerous path, especially when Hope was in his lap and Peter was pressing kisses against the back of his neck.

“It’s getting too hot in here”, Hope said, tone very casual.

“You’re right”, Peter said, and after pretending to think for a moment, he ran a hand down Morse’s back and grabbed his arse, totally unashamed. That sort of boldness wasn’t exactly _new_ on his part, but it made Morse’s breath hitch regardless.

“Morse should take off his shirt”, Peter said, more to Hope than to Morse himself, but the way he pulled Morse even closer was quite telling.

“There’s not all too much space right now, is there”, Morse said, trying to hold back a laugh at how smooth and suave Peter was being. At least the man knew how to pick up a hint when his wife served him one.

But there was truth in what Morse was saying, too, and not just petty disobedience. Peter and Hope both seemed very reluctant to let go of him, and Morse was even more reluctant to let them do so. He was perfectly happy where he was.

“No big deal. We’ll be glad to help”, Hope said, stroking Morse’s cheek and letting him repay her with a kiss on her jaw.

“God, please, _yes_ ”, Morse said, when he was physically able to form words again.

And then there were a _lot_ of hands on him. Peter’s rough angular ones wrapped around him from behind, hungry and rushed. Hope’s smaller, more delicate ones were at the collar of his shirt, carefully undoing each button one by one like she was opening the foil wrapping on a piece of confectionery.

Her brows were slightly creased as she did so, and Morse wondered what she was thinking about. Probably something along the lines of whether they'd even make it to bed or just start going at it right there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Britney Spears' "3". It's a song about a threesome. The full lyric I took it from was "Are you in? / Livin' in sin is the new thing". You're welcome to do what you want with this information XD
> 
> The next chapter will contain actual smut (wow). Unfortunately for you guys, it's not going to be up until tomorrow, when I'll publish the rest of this fic ;D Chapters 15-21 it is, on Wednesday. Thank you to everyone who's made it this far already!
> 
> ((And there are probably going to be some fics relating to this one that will be rated Explicit. Yeah, explicit, meaning "more shameless than any of the stuff I've published so far". Don't worry, the quality's still going to be good, but I went wild, alright. Lmao.))
> 
> But most importantly, I'm ECSTATIC to hear all your thoughts!! Share 'em, boil 'em, mash 'em, stick 'em in a stew! As long as you feed me that stew. (I don't know where that overly stretched-out metaphor attached to a Tolkien quote came from. You're welcome for that, too.)


	15. In Search Of Stones

The morning was grey, but not in a washed-out way. It was more of a blue-grey, the air crisp (if any morning could be considered that, in the summer of Wyoming) and fresh after a rainy night.

It took Morse a while to remember why he wasn’t in the guest room, where he’d slept all his nights up until now.

At least they’d apparently decided they ought to wear _something_ to bed. Morse had no idea where his shirt was - probably still on the back of the sofa, in the living room - but he was wearing pyjama trousers. When he lifted his head, he noticed there were lipstick stains on the pillow.

He brushed his hand against the side of his neck, and a memory coursed through him at the same time the sweet, tender pain did.

Peter on top of him, hair a beautiful mess, telling Morse that it was alright, that he was being so good. Morse’s head in Hope’s lap as she looked at him with hungry eyes before leaning down to kiss him, messy and rough on his jaw and neck.

Jesus Christ. There was quite a lot of room in the bed now, at least when Morse compared to how it had been by the end of the last night - the sheets and blanket clinging to them, their limbs tangled together so tight that Morse had an easier time telling who was who by touch rather than sight.

His hair was still clinging to his forehead, and he didn’t know how many hours they’d managed to actually sleep that night. When he turned his head, he realised Hope was there, looking at him with heavy-lidded eyes.

“Morning”, Hope said, rubbing at her eyes. She looked like she was already a bit more awake than Morse, or at least more _aware_. Must’ve been a parent thing.

“... morning”, Morse replied. Hope turned over to her side, facing Morse. At least she was wearing something, too - a nightshirt.

“Pete went to check on Cheryl”, Hope said. Morse nodded, his eyelids still a bit heavy too, but he didn’t have the energy to say anything remotely intelligent.

“I mean, I think he did. I wasn’t awake enough to make sense of his accent”, Hope added.

Fair enough. Peter dropping all his t’s, combined with a lifetime of smoking, sometimes made understanding what he was saying a bit hard in the mornings. And if Peter had been anywhere near as out of it as Morse had been when he’d first woken up, it had probably been even worse.

“Sounds good”, Morse mumbled. He’d already got the words out before realising he probably wasn’t making a lot of sense. Hopefully, Hope understood at least some of it.

What _could_ you talk about with a girl you’d slept with? It was such a long time since anyone had stayed with Morse until morning. The last person to do it had been Monica, probably, and it felt a lifetime ago.

And he was in _Peter’s_ bed, now. With his wife.

“You smell of him. All over”, Hope said, snuggling up to Morse and pressing her face against his neck and shoulder. Morse gave her a surprised smile, lifting his arm to wrap it around her.

“Can’t really escape the smoke with that bloke”, Morse said. Hope let out a huff in agreement against his skin.

“There’s something else, too”, Hope said. “I just can’t quite put my finger to it. Horse, probably. Peter said you always smelled of old books and newspaper ink back in Oxford.”

“He said that?” Morse asked. He didn’t know whether to be flattered or offended.

“Oh, definitely. Wouldn’t shut up about you after your letter arrived”, Hope said, stroking his hair and smiling at the memory.

She was looking up at him with her dark eyes, and even though her lashes weren’t as dark as Peter’s, they were long. Her lips were red, even without lipstick, and Morse was left staring at them for a moment.

She’d probably stopped at some point just to put that on, to leave her mark on Morse and Peter and their collars and all over the bedsheets. Morse should’ve probably guessed - Peter did always seem to choose the type of girls that went for the boldest reds possible.

Hope was just like that. She was bold and beautiful, and the fact that she actually had her wits about her was probably a very good influence on Peter. Or even if it wasn’t, she was probably grounded enough to keep him in check, to be his rock and beacon.

“He loves you”, Morse said softly.

It wasn’t a realisation as much as a simple statement of fact. He was admitting his defeat, in a way. Hope shook her head, hand on Morse’s cheek, and the peculiarity of the gesture made Morse give her a puzzled frown.

“I know. He loves you, too”, Hope said.

Morse swallowed hard. That wasn’t what he’d meant.

“No, I mean it. You’re probably the best thing that’s happened to him in a good while”, Morse managed to say. He gave Hope a half-smile, trying his best not to let his sudden weariness show.

“I knew him… well, _before_ , and I’ve never seen him smile as much as now that he’s here. With you.”

They heard birdsong outside, but no footsteps anywhere in the house. Maybe Peter had decided to have a smoke, too, now that he was up.

“I’m glad to hear you think so“, Hope said. “But Morse, _honey,_ that doesn’t mean he’s not in love with you. You’re just not very good at noticing how people feel about you, are you?”

Morse tried not to frown too miserably at that.

“I guess not”, he said. His throat felt tight, and it was hard to keep from blinking way too much. He hadn’t thought of it that way.

“He’s a sweetheart, our Pete”, Hope said. “Even though he used to do his best to hide it. Still sometimes does, and I’m not saying he’s not a jerk. But he’s our jerk, isn’t he? We’re in this together.”

Morse smiled.

“In most ways, yeah. But it’s not like he’s going to get me pregnant”, Morse said dryly. Hope giggled.

“Stop it!” she said. “It’s just… you know how he gets. We didn’t have the time to think about it, and then I was already calling my dad to let him know I'd be coming home early. Besides, I love Cheryl.”

“She’s a good kid”, Morse said. “Or at least growing up to be, with parents like you two.”

“Aw, thank you”, Hope said, lips curving to a smile. “Come here, you.”

She kissed him gently, and pretended to pull away after, but Morse wasn’t having that. He shoved one hand in her hair to hold on, and Hope raised an eyebrow.

“Oh, alright”, she said, and when she kissed him again, she _bit him a little_. Morse let out a surprised whine, leaning even closer to get more of it, to keep Hope close. Eventually, Hope had to pull away, holding back laughter.

“What was that for?” Morse asked. Hope lifted a hand to his cheek.

“I like your lips, Morse. So pouty all the time”, Hope said, almost _purring_. “You have no idea what a face like yours does to a woman. Can’t stop thinking about you.”

She wrapped an arm around Morse, and ran a hand down his back. It wasn’t like Morse needed that kind of reminder, _since he was already half-hard,_ and Hope bloody knew it, with that smug smile on her face. And yet, she was still being all innocent about it, looking at him with her eyes wide.

“Oh dear”, Hope said. “That’s not polite, is it.”

For a person that concerned about manners, Hope was enjoying it an awful lot. She pressed her hips closer to Morse’s, dragging it out on purpose, and pulling back when he tried to do the same.

“... I’m terribly sorry”, Morse said.

“It’s alright, really”, Hope said. “And since Pete isn’t here to help you with it, I guess I’ll have to try.”

“Please”, Morse said, his voice but a breath.

Hope sat up. Morse rolled over to his back, and the way Hope laughed at that made him blush, even though it shouldn’t have.

“Someone’s trained you well”, she said. “Eager. I like it.”

She straddled him, and Morse had to restrain himself in order to avoid making a cowgirl joke. Goddamnit, Peter’s jackass antics were getting to him, too.

“Say something”, Hope said, pressing a feather-light kiss on his cheek. Morse looked at her, a bit unfocused. She was only wearing a nightshirt, _with nothing beneath_ , and Morse could feel her bare thighs against him through his trousers.

“Ahm”, Morse said. “What?”

“I like an English accent”, Hope said. “Just do it.”

Morse looked up at her, and reached up to slip his hands under her nightshirt. She gasped.

“ _Oh_. I didn’t realise you had such nice hands. Jesus”, Hope said. Morse smiled, moving his hands up.

“You should be careful what you wish for”, Morse said. “There are a lot of English accents, and -”

Hope looked at him, eyes wide at the realisation.

“Don’t you dare”, she said, but Morse was already saying it.

“Wotcha”, he whispered, in the sultriest voice he could manage. Hope looked at him, torn between astonishment and desperation, before breaking into laughter.

“ _Bloody hell_ , as you say it over the pond”, Hope said. “Oh my God, Morse.”

“But you said -” Morse started, but didn’t have the time to finish before Hope was leaning down to kiss him, deep and slow.

“What I’m saying now”, Hope said, “is that your pants need to come off.”

And so they did. Hope threw her nightshirt off while they were at it, and when she straddled Morse again, he let out a low moan and put his hands on her waist. She had soft, thick thighs, and Morse had no doubt as to why Peter had picked her up and brought her back to his place all that time ago.

She grabbed his thigh for a moment, but _thankfully_ didn’t tease him any further before taking him in. The light of the barely-risen sun from between the curtains made her auburn hair glow almost golden on its edges as she pressed her hips down.

“You’re beautiful”, Morse said. Hope leaned down to kiss him again, firm and insistent.

“So are you”, Hope said. “You’re always so _curious_ when you look at things, so beautiful. It’s sweet.”

At some point in time, the door opened. Morse couldn’t really tell by the sound, as he was too preoccupied with Hope, her flowing hair and warm breath and her curious hands holding him steady against the mattress, but he did feel cool air flow into the room.

“Are you - _Jesus_ ”, Peter said. Hope turned to look at him over her shoulder, and Morse would’ve tried to sit up, had Hope not firmly pressed him back down by his chest. It made Morse’s breath hitch, and he was almost tempted to try again.

“Good morning. Finders keepers, sweetheart”, Hope said.

“Bloody hell. You really wasted no time getting to it, did you?” Peter asked, closing the door behind him. He’d rolled his sleeves up again, and Morse was still in awe of how much he’d managed to tan during the months he’d spent in Wyoming. It wasn’t very much by normal standards, but comparing to how pale he’d been back in Oxford, it was _odd_.

“You could’ve waited for me, you know”, Peter said. “I wasn’t away that long. Oh my God.”

“Not Jesus”, Morse said, after he’d managed to catch his breath a bit. Hope turned to look at him, and so did Peter. Morse cleared his throat.

“... what?” Peter asked, walking towards the bed and sitting down a tad awkwardly. He was desperately trying to look unbothered. Morse sighed and smiled, pleased with himself.

“According to the Encyclopædia Britannica, and not to mention, the Bible, it’s actually Judas who’s red-haired and goes around kissing people he shouldn’t”, Morse said.

“Right”, Peter said. “Hope, you better keep going before we get a full lecture. If he can still use his brain, you’re not doing it right.”

“Sure thing”, Hope said, and Morse could only manage a quick laugh before being silenced by her lips on his.

Peter was obviously having a hard time staying in his trousers - each time Morse looked at him, he seemed a bit more desperate, clenching his fists and holding on to the sheets like _he_ was the one in a _tight spot_. It made Morse’s head even foggier, seeing Peter like that, not knowing who to look at.

“It’s better this way”, Hope said. “Can’t do anything too rough after last night.”

Morse got very red at that, because he wasn’t at all sure of what last night had entailed. They’d probably need to make more memories like that, to make sure they stuck.

“Fair enough”, Peter said. “And I can’t blame you, either, since he’s a very pretty bloke. Drove me crazy at the nick. One time I just had to go and have him against a -”

Being reminded of that particular day, combined with Hope shoving her hips against his, was enough to throw Morse over the edge. Peter made a whiny sound at the gasp Morse let out, and Hope leaned down to kiss him once again.

“There you go”, Hope said, breathless, but not getting off him. “Peter, what was it?”

“Against a door, at a storage room“, Peter said weakly, eyes fixed on Morse. “You can’t believe. He was so sweet the rest of the day, all red and shy every time I so much as _looked_ at -”

Hope let out a sharp gasp, slumping down against Morse, staying still to savour the aftershocks. Morse could feel her heartbeat against his own chest, and for a moment, they breathed the same air together. Hope kissed him deep one more time, and muttered an almost-silent _thank you_ against his lips.

Morse tried to not pant too audibly when he looked at Peter. Hope's warm weight was still pressed against him, and she was drawing lazy circles on his chest with her hands. Peter was staring at them.

“You can't just leave me like this. It’s not fair”, Peter said.

“Tough luck”, Hope said, yawning while doing so. Her hands were soft but tired, her hair a tangled mess, and it brushed against Morse's face when she moved to kiss him on the corner of his mouth. Morse let out a soft laugh, and he felt Hope smile against his lips.

“That's what you get for actually taking care of your responsibilities”, Hope said, getting up from Morse's lap and rolling over onto her back. Morse decided that it was a pretty good time to start looking for his pants.

“Morse, she’s my wife”, Peter said when they weren’t as much of a mess, and at least half-decently dressed. He’d crawled into bed with them, clearly determined to place himself between Morse and Hope to get at least _some_ attention from them.

It was working very well. Morse wasn’t the type to drape himself all over people like Peter often did, but he did like getting close sometimes. Especially when he got the chance to run his hands along Peter’s bare arms.

“This is disgraceful. A policeman should know better”, Peter said. Morse just scoffed at that. It might’ve been believable, had Peter not looked like he was about to turn into hot steam out of sheer pleasure every second that he’d looked at them. But if denying how much he’d enjoyed it helped Peter sleep at night, then so be it.

“Well, you’re my husband”, Hope pointed out. “Doesn’t stop you from messing around with Morse. It’s not like I can’t hear you through the walls.”

A tingling creeped up Morse’s cheeks. It was so hot it felt chilly, and he closed his eyes for a moment to draw in a deep breath.

“I didn’t know you could -” he started. Hope shook her head.

“It’s alright. Just thought I should let you know”, she said.

“It’s different”, Peter said, amused but still a slight bit defensive. It was endearing, honestly. “Morse’s my… Morse.”

The choice in words made Hope chuckle. Morse looked at Peter in disbelief - it was both heartwarming and _very dumb_ , so not unlike Peter at all, but _still_ \- and got a challenging stare in return. Peter’s face was as red as his could get, so practically a pale pink, but admittedly, it was very nice to look at.

“Well, I borrowed your Morse for a moment, since you weren’t around to take care of him. Can’t see any harm in that”, Hope said.

“Shame on you both”, Peter said, but grinned anyway. “I even got the kettle boiling while I was up. You’ve got to sort yourselves out before breakfast.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from Jake Bugg's "Simple As This", which is the perfect song to describe how these three (or mainly Morse) got their heartbreak sorted out.
> 
> I actually had to rewrite this whole chapter, since the smut in it wasn't nearly smutty enough (or rather, the mood was all wrong), and it took me over two hours XD I'm more satisfied with it now, though!
> 
> I'm going to carry on posting the rest in a couple of hours. As always, please tell me what you think! <3
> 
> Coming up: The fluffiest, sweetest chapter in like. EVER. Also, we find out a bit more about why Jakes is a Trekkie. XD


	16. Below The Amber Sky

They ended up having to change the sheets. Hope said it was fine, and hers was probably the opinion that mattered the most, as she was the one who had to do the laundry. Morse still felt a bit awkward and sheepish about it, but as they got to making breakfast like nothing out of the ordinary had happened, it got easier.

He didn’t remember what he’d thought would happen after something like _that_ , going to bed with Peter _and his wife_ , but it was much more _casual_ than he’d expected. They turned on the radio and listened to the morning broadcast, and made tea and black coffee. (Turned out that Hope didn’t only drink it when she was dead tired, she just happened to like it that way.)

Peter looked like he was itching for another cigarette, but Morse was glad to notice he’d dropped his nasty habit of smoking while cooking. Morse did still make a comment about how it must’ve been because of nerves, Peter not being able to deal with not getting what he wanted, and that had earned him a playful smack on his arm, then a moment of pensive silence, and then a peck on his cheek.

At least Peter and Hope had _tried_ to cover up their amusement at the fact that it wasn’t particularly hard to make Morse’s face red. That was _something_ to say on their behalf.

Hope went to get Cheryl at one point and talked to her while turning eggs on the pan, to include her daughter in the process. Nothing in the way any of them acted had changed, except for something that Morse didn’t realise right away.

Neither Peter nor Hope were skirting around him in any way anymore. Technically they hadn’t done so before, either, but it felt like something was different. Or maybe it was just Morse himself, noticing things in a different way now.

Hope was just as likely to hand Cheryl over to Morse as she was to Peter when she needed her hands free. She seemed not to do any conscious picking whatsoever, just chose whoever happened to be at hand. It was a bit terrifying for Morse, to be trusted so much, but the way Peter looked at him when he was holding a child - _Peter’s child_ \- was worth it. And Cheryl was easy to get along with, even though Morse didn’t really know how to communicate with her.

“Going to be a sunny day”, Hope said, sitting down at the table with them with Cheryl in her lap. She’d opened a jar of baby food, and Morse was glad they were sitting at the end of the table, not terribly close to him and Peter, who was sitting across from him. Nothing personal against Cheryl, she just wasn’t very adept at eating yet, even though Hope did most of the work for her with the spoon.

“Sure looks like it”, Morse said, looking out the window. It wasn’t as if he’d suddenly become an expert in Wyoming’s weather, but it was pretty clear by the way the sky looked like it almost always did, clear and light, very much different from the rainy weight bearing down on his shoulders that the sky in Oxford sometimes was.

“We could have lunch outside, if you two are up for some cooking”, Hope said, trying not to let Cheryl shove the spoon out of her hand.

“A little picnic. Morse, you’ve seen the apple tree behind the house, right, the biggest one? It’s a great spot.”

“Sounds wonderful”, Morse said.

And it was. A couple of hours later, they were laying out blankets underneath that tree, the grass around them just long enough to visibly sway in the wind, but well-groomed enough not to be a bother.

Morse had been assigned the task of looking after Cheryl while Hope and Peter laid everything out. She was easily distracted by everything, sights and sounds and just the world being there, and Morse could relate to that. It was especially easy when a butterfly landed on the back of his hand. At first, Morse flinched at the sudden touch, but when he realised what it was, he was actually rather enchanted.

“Cheryl, look”, Morse said, bringing his hand in front of her so she could see. “It’s a butterfly. It’s yellow.”

“Eow”, Cheryl said. Morse smiled.

“I guess so”, he said. “But you know, there’s also some - _hey_!”

Cheryl had tried to grab the butterfly, which made Morse pull his hand back. He didn’t want the poor thing crushed to death. The sudden movement startled the butterfly, and it flew away, probably rather disappointed in the treatment it’d got.

“We’re finished”, Peter called out. “And I’m hungry. Come on, Morse.”

“Alright”, Morse said, walking over and letting Hope take Cheryl. The girl didn’t look like she wanted to stay in the same place for long, but it was probably for the best to keep an eye on her while they were eating, so her mother’s lap it was.

The chicken salad was good, and so were the sandwiches. The lemonade was a little bit too sweet for Morse’s liking, but it was also so _interesting_ as an American concept that he didn’t mind too much.

Peter had the audacity to chuckle at how red Morse turned when Hope kissed him, out of the blue while they were finishing the main course (if you could call it that), as if it was the most ordinary thing in the world. After the initial shock, Morse couldn’t say he didn’t _like_ it. He did remember that last night, Hope had spent a lot of time finding out how Morse liked to be kissed, letting Peter teach her when it was necessary.

However, what followed was certainly _something_. They piled up their plates, and Peter took the cover off the bowl of strawberries they’d brought out.

“Morse”, Peter said, his hand still in the bowl. “Open up.”

“Oh my god, Peter”, Morse said, his face probably flushing up _again_. Still, Peter’s eyes were so insistent and his smile so patronising that Morse ended up letting Peter press the strawberry to his lips.

It was sugar-coated, and Morse let out an approving hum as he tasted it. Very sweet, but not _too_ sweet, at least not after the lemonade.

“There you go”, Peter said, moving a finger along Morse’s lip. Morse looked down, following it with his eyes, before looking back up at Peter. The bastard was grinning at him.

“You should let us hand-feed you more often”, Peter said. “Maybe you’d actually eat something, then.”

“Shut up”, Morse said, though there was no real fire behind his words.

(The second time Peter fed one to him, Morse took the unashamed route and licked his fingers clean. That got a very lovely deep blush out of Peter, and made Hope laugh, so it was very much a win for everybody.)

After that, Morse ended up lying back and putting his head in Peter’s lap.

“You’re getting cosy”, Peter said, stroking his hair. Morse just smiled.

“Just resting my eyes a bit”, Morse said. “Since you two didn’t let me catch too much sleep last night.”

“Not gonna be any better tonight, I’m afraid”, Peter said. “But that’s mostly because we’ve missed Star Trek two weeks in a row. They’re doing replays tonight.”

“Sounds exciting”, Morse mumbled, earning a chuckle from Peter. “Can’t wait.”

“Hey, you do like how William Shatner looks. You can’t fool me”, Peter said.

“Stop projecting”, Morse said, wishing he would’ve had a straw hat or something to pull over his eyes.

 

He drifted off soon enough, and when he woke up, it was because Hope and Peter were talking in hushed voices.

“We’ve got enough film for another one, come on”, Peter said. “Make sure the angle’s good.”

Morse had barely got his eyes open before he heard the unmistakable sound of a picture being taken. When he looked up at Peter, confused, he only got a smile for an answer.

“What’s going on?” Morse slurred out, rubbing at his eyes. Hope was smiling too, having put the camera down.

“They called last summer the _Summer of Love_ , Morse”, Peter said. “Rainbows and flower crowns. Hope’s somewhat of a flower child herself.”

“You’re not making a lot of sense right now”, Morse muttered, pushing himself up.

When he did, a single blue flower fell out of his hair. He picked it up, and realised it was blue-eyed grass. Then another fell, though it was just a petal. That one was yellow.

Jesus. Morse lifted a careful hand to his hair, and realised it was one of many. He turned to look at Hope, eyes wide, and couldn’t help but give her a flabbergasted smile when she grinned at him.

“You’re welcome”, Hope mouthed, as Peter pulled Morse close again to make him lean against his chest.

“You’re beautiful”, Peter said against the back of his neck. “And that sweet smell isn’t bad, either.”

They spent a while longer on the blanket, Cheryl crawling over them and trying to explain something very enthusiastically. But as the girl started getting tired, Hope went to take her back indoors.

Hope said that she needed a proper nap (in a bed, she clarified) as much as her daughter did, and therefore wasn’t going to ask Morse and Peter to join her, as it would’ve probably turned into something entirely different rather quickly. Peter just shrugged and chuckled at that, but Morse turned very red at the insinuation, and it felt like the thousandth time he’d done it that day. Dear Lord.

So the horses it was, then, and Peter and the fields and the open sky overhead. Morse kept the flowers on him as long as he could, even though all but one had fallen off by the end of the day.

Sitting on the saddle was uncomfortable all day, even more so than usually, and it wasn’t until the evening arrived that Morse found out the reason.

He had a red love-bite on his inner thigh. Granted, half of it turned out to be lipstick, which was a relief, but a lip-sized mark still remained. He had no idea who’d given it to him. The implications made his ears burn long after the fact, and he was reminded of the mark’s existence each time he bumped it against a chair or got off a horse or crossed his legs.

“This is going to be awfully blunt, but…” Morse started, when they were all curled up on the sofa after two episodes of _Star Trek_ , Cheryl already asleep in her crib. Peter raised an eyebrow.

“Spit it out”, Peter said, stroking Morse’s wrist and the back of his hand. It was _odd_ , still, the way Peter simply wasn’t pale anymore, but luckily it didn’t change the way it felt. Morse sighed and leaned against Peter’s shoulder.

“Which one of you sucked a bloody bruise into my thigh? It’s a little uncomfortable”, Morse said, shifting a bit on the sofa to prove his words. Peter’s eyebrows climbed up his forehead, and it was honestly a bit funny, the way he looked absolutely _stunned_ at that. Morse was glad to see that he wasn’t the only one whose memory of last night was a bit foggy.

“Wait, _bloody_?” Hope asked, alarmed. “Morse, dear, you should’ve -”

“No, no. Figure of speech”, Morse said. “But it’s still a bit… yeah. It’s in a tricky spot.”

“Well, you’re the detectives”, Hope said. She reached over Peter, and her fingers gently brushed against Morse’s cheek. The touch made him shiver, mostly because Hope gave him a kind, warm smile as she did so.

“Shouldn’t you know how to figure out these things?” Hope said, pulling her hand back. Morse found himself staring at her painted nails - still yellow - so it took him a while to realise they were still in the middle of a conversation.

“Well, I - some of it was lipstick”, Morse said, face a bit red. He hadn’t really needed to explain something like _this_ out loud before, and it wasn’t exactly easy to distance himself from the implications of the _case at hand_ , if you could call it that, when Peter was still stroking his hand.

“But it doesn’t prove anything, really”, Morse went on. “It’s not like Peter didn’t -”

“Oh, there you go with the _theories_ again. Never pick the plainest explanation, do you”, Peter said.

Morse just scoffed at that. Peter knew full well that it wasn’t in his nature to overlook possibilities, as that would’ve made Morse a bad detective. (Besides, as a suspect, Peter didn’t have any say in how Morse was going about the investigation.)

Peter wrapped an arm around Morse’s shoulders, pulling him close. It wasn’t anything new in and of itself, but the way Peter pressed his whole face against Morse’s neck and shoulder for a moment, breathing him in, was… odd. (Not that Morse didn’t like it. He _did_.)

“Either way, I’ll kiss it better for you tonight, doll. Promise”, Peter said, lips practically touching his ear. Morse couldn’t see his smile, but he heard it in his voice, and it sent a tingle down the back of his neck.

“Is that so”, Morse said, tone dry, but he couldn’t help but smile a little at the way Peter let out a sound of insistent confirmation and ran a hand down his arm.

Later that night, Peter ended up being true to his word. Morse wasn’t exactly surprised at the fact that he was dragged into bed with Hope and Peter yet again, but he _was_ surprised when they insisted on him staying to sleep with them, in the literal sense. He didn’t remember how they’d worked that out the night before, so making such arrangements again was definitely an… experience.

Peter wasn’t any more polite of a co-sleeper than he’d ever been in Oxford. He did his best to drape his arms over Morse and Hope, clinging to whomever he could reach best at the time. Hope wasn’t much better in that regard, as she was keen to hold them and be held in return, but Morse ended up growing quite fond of the scent of her jasmine shampoo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from Blossoms - Charlemagne.
> 
> This chapter is probably one of my personal favourites. It's just so sweet and light-hearted and sdfghjkghfhtdgres I love them all oh my g o d!
> 
> Don't hesitate to comment <3


	17. Midnight Laugh

All three of them slept in one bed practically every night after the first time they’d done it, but there were times when it didn’t work quite as well as it could’ve. They could manage otherwise, even if it got a tad too hot sometimes, but there was one problem that hardly ever changed - Peter’s constant snoring.

It was endearing at times, honestly, when it was more of a quiet car engine running in the distance than a bloody eight-wheeler in the motorway, but some nights it just _wasn’t_. One night, Morse spent what felt like an hour lying awake and staring at the ceiling, trying to simply _will_ himself to sleep even when Peter was practically snoring right into his ear. At some point in time, a slow shift of the mattress from the other side of the bed made him lift his head.

“Hope”, Morse said quietly, less to avoid waking Peter and more to avoid waking Cheryl.

“Yeah”, a soft voice said. Morse was just barely able to make out where her face was when she sat up in the nearly pitch-black darkness of the room.

“Does he always snore this much?” Morse asked, exasperated. He was honestly _glad_ that he hadn’t slept with Peter that often (in the literal sense - in the idiomatic sense it _had_ happened quite often), back in Oxford - he wouldn’t have been able to catch much sleep at all if he had. And he really preferred staying up with scotch than because of an infernal sound like that next to his ear.

“Sometimes, yeah”, Hope said, yawning. Morse frowned.

“Oh”, he said, rubbing at his eyes. “Does he stop?”

“If he gets up to cough or goes for a smoke”, Hope said, and Morse wasn’t sure if he was hearing a tired smile in her voice. It seemed very likely.

“... alright”, Morse said, not sure what to make of the information. Didn’t sound all too promising.

The room was silent for a moment, save for the snoring, of course. It was probably something like 2 am, definitely not the evening anymore, but dawn was so far away that it wouldn’t be very nice to wait for it to finally arrive.

“Wanna switch over to your room?” Hope asked.

“Oh, I - sure. You can have the bed”, Morse offered. Slumping down on the armchair in the corner of the room was probably going to be more comfortable than trying to get any rest when Peter was being… Peter, so it would be alright.

“Don’t be silly, we’ll fit alright”, Hope said, swinging her legs over the edge of the bed. (She did turn around to kiss Peter’s forehead, like the _dutiful wife_ she was, before getting up.)

Morse had no choice but to follow her, since Peter shifted in his sleep, and for a while it seemed like he was about to drape his arms all over Morse.

They walked down the hallway together, hand in hand to make it through the darkness (and, well, also because Hope had soft hands), the floorboards creaking a bit. Hope did know how to avoid the loudest spots, and Morse _was_ a detective, so he had no trouble following in her soft footsteps. She sounded almost cat-like, really, and because it made Morse smile, he told her as much. There was no real _need_ to be quiet since Peter was still being terribly loud, but it would’ve felt out of place not to try.

“I’ve lived here since I was a kid”, Hope said. “Got pretty good at it in my teens. Even though there’s not much to sneak out _to_.”

She stopped to press the door handle down, and it opened without making a sound. Well-oiled, then, it seemed.

“Has been a while since I slept here”, Morse said as they stepped in. Hope let out a soft laugh, and before Morse knew it, she had lifted her hands to his shoulders, leaning against him. It was a surprise, but a very welcome one, and after a moment of almost-startled hesitation Morse lifted his hands to her waist, letting her press even closer. She smelled of sleep, in the way that some of the lavender they kept in sachet bags tucked between sheets in their drawers must’ve caught on to her hair. Morse was pretty sure that a woman who’d lived at a farm all her life wouldn’t wear actual perfume on said farm, even though she _did_ like lipstick and nail polish.

“Must’ve been terribly lonely, you poor thing”, Hope said, hands at the back of his neck, caressing him. Morse drew in a long breath, hands itching to brush against Hope’s soft stomach, covered in silk, and then trail down to her thighs. But he wasn’t Peter Jakes, and even though he _knew_ Hope was dropping hints at him, he wasn’t sure of how to act on them.

“A bit. I didn’t even have Wagner to keep me company”, Morse said.

“Well, you have me, now”, Hope said, and that was so forward already that Morse finally leaned in to kiss her. She was eager to give back, and even though they were both so tired that there wasn’t all that much heat in the kiss, it still felt warm and comforting. She kissed him back a couple times, on his chin and jaw, but soon pulled back.

“We better get to bed”, Hope said, not letting go of Morse. “I’ll fall asleep on my feet soon.”

“And I’d have to carry you?” Morse asked, raising his eyebrows and trailing his hands down as if about to pick her up. Hope swatted his hands away and let out a giggle-snort.

“Oh my god, no”, Hope said. “Pete tried that the day we got married. Didn’t work out that well with his lanky arms. It was fun while it lasted, though.”

“Fair enough”, Morse said, and settled on pressing his hand against the small of her back. Hope smiled at that.

After taking the bedspread off, Morse crawled into bed and pressed as close to the wall as he could manage, to leave room for Hope. She followed soon after, and Morse was surprised to find out that they fit there quite well. Very snug against each other, sure, but it wasn't bad at all when the person in bed with him was soft and sweet and warm and _dressed in thin silk_. Morse tried not to think of it too much, because he was _tired_ , but it proved to be difficult. Luckily, the blanket wasn’t terribly thick - it would’ve only added to the heat.

“You have nice arms”, Hope said, leaning back against him. Morse resisted the urge to clear his throat, because that was _just_ what she bloody wanted, and instead just let out a soft breath against her. Her hair smelled sweet, of the night and her and jasmine, and Morse couldn’t help but brush it aside to press a kiss on the back of her neck.

“... thanks”, Morse said, and Hope laughed softly at the awkward reluctance in his voice.

“No, really”, Hope said. “You’re more of a scholar than a field hand, but they’re nice.”

Morse didn’t know what to make of it, so he just laughed softly, letting Hope turn her head to better kiss him. It was a bit more intense than he’d anticipated, with her holding on to his hair and revelling in how he tasted. Morse let out a sigh after they pulled apart.

“I thought you were tired”, he muttered. He was, too, but apparently his body was slowly starting to have other ideas. Hope smiled before turning her back to him, the way her body pressed against his in the process only making things worse.

“I _am_ ”, Hope said. “It was a good night’s kiss. Just for you.”

“Oh”, Morse said, holding back his disbelieving laughter in a desperate attempt to save his dignity. “Alright, then.”

“Sleep well, Morse, honey”, Hope said, her voice soft, and it honestly made Morse’s heart melt. It could’ve been painful, too, because sweet pet names like that had last been a thing between a girl and him when he’d still had Monica, when things hadn’t gone wrong between them yet. He’d found a new sort of balance with Peter after that, when Morse had got out of prison, but Morse really wasn’t the type to get over people in general.

“You need it, too. I’ll go wake Pete up if Cheryl needs someone”, Hope added, pulling him out of his thoughts.

“Thank you”, Morse said, or really, mumbled against her hair. “Good night to you too.”

Hope shifted against him one more time before pressing her head against the pillow they were now sharing. A lot of her hair was in Morse’s face, but in all honesty, he didn’t mind too much. Being close to someone was often terrifying, but it felt good, too, to hold someone to his chest and listen to them breathe, slow and calm.

It didn’t take Morse all that long to drift to sleep, to let a gentle breeze take him to a place he’d never seen before. Everything was reassuringly vague and tinted rose-yellow.

 

He woke up with Hope half-wrapped around him, asleep and with her hair all tangled up, and Peter looking down at them with his arms crossed and a barely-hidden smirk on his face.

“Uh. Morning”, Morse said, barely able to keep his eyes open as he tried not to yawn around the words. Peter raised an eyebrow.

“That’s a bit rude, isn’t it. To abandon your husband in the middle of the night like that”, Peter said. When Morse simply stared at him, not understanding half of what he’d just heard, Peter leaned down over them to press a kiss on his forehead.

“Not if said husband snores”, Hope muttered. Apparently, she wasn’t that asleep after all, even though she looked like she was, what with the way she’d pressed herself against the wall like a floppy pillow. Peter let out a snort.

“It’s half past nine already, sleeping beauty”, Peter said. “Must’ve had a rough night for you both to have slept this long.”

Hope let out a soft groan, turning her back to them both. Morse didn’t blame her for not being ready to wake up. After all, this _was_ the first night Peter had kept Morse up _with his snoring_ , but it had to be the umpteenth for Hope.

“You’re not my husband”, Morse said, still caught up on the words that hadn’t slid past him. He couldn’t stop staring at Peter, his eyes wide.

The look on Peter’s sharp face softened, his lips curving into a real smile instead of the cocky smirk he usually went for. Being looked at like that made Morse’s heart beat fast, even though he was still barely awake. He felt something flutter in his chest, a feeling he couldn’t quite make out, but it became pretty evident when Peter laid a hand on his shoulder.

“Not officially. Might as well be, though”, Peter said.

He got a good laugh out of the stunned look Morse gave him, but the way Morse pulled him down by his collar to kiss him shut him up pretty effectively.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Girl Crush, originally by Little Big Town. Harry Styles made a cover without changing the pronouns, so that's the one I've been listening to.


	18. Virtues Uncounted

Love was a funny thing, really. Morse hadn’t ever had much luck with it, but he was slowly realising that part of it was because he was too bloody thick to understand how other people felt. He needed to hear it, needed to be _convinced_ , but he didn’t want to ask for it. He was needy enough without doing something like that.

The first time Peter said it, _said he loved him_ \- not counting the time he’d said it to comfort Morse early in the summer, after the barn - they were in bed. The words came out as a moan and a prayer against his neck, with one of Peter’s hands on his shoulder and the other in Hope’s hair. Morse didn’t, _couldn’t_ take it all-too-seriously when it was obviously little more than an extension of the way Peter kissed him and groped him and asked him to give all he got. And Morse gave, of course.

His poor foolish heart still believed in it, and oh, how it _hoped_. Morse wasn’t even sure what exactly he was hoping _for_ , but the words left a deep blue longing inside his chest, a warm, soft black hole where his heart was supposed to be. He _knew_ he was being sappy, but it didn’t matter, when it was easy enough to pretend.

He didn’t dare mention it to Peter, or Hope, for that matter, because it really wasn’t that big of a deal. Morse was just making it out to be.

And so he was very surprised when one morning was very different from the rest. He’d been the first to wake up, so he’d gone and got the kettle boiling, but he’d only stood in the kitchen in his vest and pyjama trousers and tried to make sense of the too-awake world around him for a short while before Peter followed him.

“Morse”, Peter said as soon as he saw him, arms wrapping around him from behind, pressing his warm and slightly prickly cheek against his. Morse drew in a long breath, letting Peter hold on and pull him closer.

“Good morning”, Morse said, leaning back against Peter.

It was a bit of an odd thing to do first thing in the morning, but any chance to feel Peter’s bare arms on him was a welcome one. The tan-lines on his forearms were a bit funny, even more prominent than Morse would’ve expected, but that was probably what you got when you spent most of the summer outside but did _not_ strip down to your bloody underclothes. (Thank god.)

For a moment, he wondered whether he’d still get similar ones on his own arms before the end of summer. Probably not, but Peter and Hope both _had_ remarked that Morse had even more freckles now.

They’d even done research on the matter one night when they’d spent an embarrassingly long time mapping out his body, pressing kisses against freckled spots when they found them. It had started out awkward, being made the centrepiece like that, but he’d ended up so distracted that by the end of it he hadn’t even minded it that much.

“What is it?” Morse asked, when he felt Peter smile against his ear. There was no response for a while, simply Peter breathing against him and nuzzling his neck. It wasn’t a bad place to be at all, standing in the kitchen with the morning sun slowly making its way up outside the window, the shadow of a swaying branch reflected on the wooden floor.

“I love you”, Peter said, and Morse’s heart positively _jumped_.

Peter bloody _knew_ what he was doing, and it wasn’t _Morse’s_ fault that it was working so well. He swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry.

“Oh”, Morse said. He couldn’t manage anything more intelligent, as it was near-impossible to put how he felt about it into words. His face was tingling. Peter chuckled lightly.

“Yeah”, Peter said. “Thought you should know.”

Morse turned his head to look at Peter and his sharp face and soft expression. They looked into each other’s eyes for what felt like a second before Peter leaned in to kiss him, lips just barely brushing against the corner of his mouth.

For once, it felt like Peter wasn’t _looking_ for anything with the kiss, wasn’t seeking to prove anything. It was just a hello, an acknowledgement of the fact that Morse was there and so was Peter, and the world wasn’t in any hurry to make them go anywhere.

“Peter, do you… I… _why_?” Morse stuttered, after his mouth was his own again, turning around to face Peter. He laid his hand on Peter’s warm neck and shoulder, feeling his heartbeat beneath his fingers, and the way Peter looked at him, all serious and almost _concerned_ , made him weak in the knees.

“How could I not”, Peter said, wrapping his arms around his shoulders again, and Morse let out a bewildered breath. Was that really how it was?

“I can think of plenty of reasons”, Morse said, rather bitterly, but Peter was having none of it.

“Quit that. You’re a prickly bastard alright, but you’re _my_ prickly bastard”, Peter said. “And you can be sweet too, when you want to be.”

“... thanks? I guess”, Morse said, too flustered to think of anything particularly snappy to say to that. He _liked_ what he was hearing. Peter smiled, pressing another small kiss over his cheekbone.

“You’ve got no idea how those eyes make birds swoon. Not like I can resist it any better“, Peter mumbled, stroking Morse’s arms and _looking_ at him, probably seeing into the depths of his very being as he did so.

Morse knew he could be tight-bound, and it often made things ( _feelings_ ) difficult for him. But now it was different, for once - when he was being looked at like that, he felt like an open book, like Peter had stuck a slip of paper between his pages and could now leaf through him as he pleased.

“Christ, Peter”, Morse said. “I guess you’d know about that. Girls swooning.”

Peter laughed softly, and it was a very good look on him, his face lighting up. Morse couldn’t help but smile back.

It was true. The way Peter dressed now was very _different_ from suits and blindingly white shirts specifically picked to look intimidating on him, but Morse had been a goner for the stupid boots and jeans and the sodding stetson the moment he'd seen them, simply because it was embarrassingly stunning _Peter_ who was wearing them.

Of course, at the moment Peter wasn’t wearing much of anything - just a vest and loose pyjama trousers - but it didn’t matter. His sharp nose and heavy brows and carefully sculpted cheekbones did the trick on their own. Morse almost couldn’t believe Peter was standing there, holding him, looking like he was completely lost and happy to be so.

“No, but really”, Peter said, pulling Morse even closer to stroke the fine hairs at the back of his neck. “Hope fell just as hard as the rest of them. Started going on about how much of a looker you are the moment you went to sleep on your first night here. A bit rude, really.”

Morse felt his face burn, and the way he was quickly growing as red as his hair seemed to please Peter a great deal.

His embarrassment only got worse when he heard a barely-held-back chuckle from the door, and realised that there was a reason Peter had glanced that way quite a few times already. Damn Hope and her cat-like footsteps.

Morse nudged Peter to let him know he’d rather not have him clinging to him so hard that he couldn’t even turn to look at her. Peter obliged.

“Hey, I don’t see what part of the truth is rude”, Hope said, leaning against the doorframe. She wasn’t quite as theatrical with her modelling as Peter was, but it made Morse smile, knowing from whom she’d probably picked up the habit.

“Morning, loves”, she said. “It’s Sunday.”

It was still rather early, but luckily, neither Peter nor Hope were the church-going type. Of course, it would’ve also been awfully difficult to do from a farm so far in the middle of nowhere, which gave them a good excuse. (And with the way they were going about their married life, they _really weren’t_ paying all that much attention to the teachings of the Bible. All the better for Morse, to be honest.)

“Morning”, Peter said. Even though he wasn’t squeezing him _that_ hard anymore, he still wasn’t letting go of Morse. “We’ll get to the horses after breakfast, alright?”

“Sure, sure. There’s no hurry. And Cheryl’s still sleeping”, Hope said, brushing some of her auburn hair out of her face.

It was so long and curly that it was probably practically impossible for her to wake up without it being all tangled up, but she was clearly trying her best to sort through the worst knots with her fingers. But messy as it was, it was a nice look on her.

She’d got half-dressed already, changing from the nightie to a white shirt. A _men’s_ shirt.

It wasn’t anything _new_ per se, since Hope apparently had a habit of wearing Peter’s shirts around the house, but this time it was _different_. The shirt wasn’t quite as tight or stark-white as usual, and something about it seemed very familiar.

It took Morse a second to realise that it was the shirt he’d taken off last night. One he’d brought with him from Oxford. _That was new_.

“Uh, Hope, is that…” Morse started. Hope looked at him, surprised.

“Yeah?” she asked, but suddenly Morse couldn’t form words anymore.

It was stupid and sentimental and weak, but he _couldn’t believe_ that Hope liked him _that much_ , that she would treat him to the same gentle tomfoolery that she did her husband. She’d wanted to _wear his shirt_. Dear Lord.

Morse had to swallow hard just to prevent sodding _tears_ from welling up in his eyes, and he must’ve looked absolutely dim-witted while he did so, since Peter smirked at him.

“Look what you’ve done. You broke him”, Peter said, making Hope scoff. He patted Morse on the back, and it was an awfully _friendly_ , almost _brotherly_ gesture from someone who’d been clinging onto him and breathing against his face the entire morning.

“It’s alright, Morse. Happens to the best of us. Not your fault she decided to show up looking like a dish”, Peter added, throwing a pointed glance at Hope. She smiled.

“Why, thank you, Casanova”, Hope said, and it was Morse’s turn to almost roll his eyes.

“It’s not just that”, Morse said. “I was meaning to ask… Hope, is that my shirt?”

There was a moment of silence, Peter looking at Hope with entirely new eyes. It was a little bit funny to Morse, to be honest, and he gave Hope the slightest smile as she suddenly looked sheepish, fiddling with the hem of the shirt.

“Oh, I… yeah”, Hope said. “I can give it back if you’d like, I just -”

“No, no”, Morse said hurriedly. His shirt was loose and long on her, her narrower shoulders easily fitting in it, and even though she’d done most of the buttons, it didn’t leave all that much to the imagination. Scaring her off wearing it in the future was the last thing he wanted.

“It looks good on you. I was just surprised”, Morse said.

“A sappy lot you are, the both of you”, Peter said, but his eyes were gentle, and he leaned in to kiss Morse one more time before he had a chance to protest.

“It does look good on you, babe, just like it does on Morse. But I need tea”, Peter said, quickly brushing his knuckles against Morse’s cheek before finally letting go of him. Morse was left standing there, staring at Hope with almost-blurry eyes.

“You’re really spoiling me rotten with the compliments today, huh”, Hope said, moving her weight from one foot to another. “Could get used to it, you know.”

Peter just laughed at that, taking the kettle off the stove and starting to open cupboards to get teacups out. Morse knew he was supposed to help, like he had each morning from almost the first week he’d been staying there, but his brain was working at such a sluggish pace that he couldn’t do anything but stare at Hope and blink slowly.

“Thank you”, Morse finally said, the words more a breath than anything actually spoken. He didn’t really know _why_ he was saying it, but he felt like it had to be said. It was a thank you for many things. Everything, probably.

Hope walked towards him, and when she was close enough, she lifted a hand to his shoulder.

“I should probably be thanking you”, Hope said against his neck. Morse shivered slightly at the feeling of soft lips on his skin, _again_ , and that made Hope smile.

“It’s comfy. And better yet, it smells of you.”

And, well, if _that_ wasn’t just asking for a kiss, Morse didn’t know what would’ve been, so he leaned in to press his lips against Hope’s. It turned out that she appreciated that quite a lot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from Hozier's Shrike.


	19. Older Than The Trees

After that morning, Peter made sure to sneak in those words - _I love you_ \- in their conversations as often as he could. It was practically every day. They came as casually as they did when Peter said them to Hope, and Morse was quite sure that it happened so often because Peter really liked the way he blushed at them, each time just as bad as the previous one.

But how could Morse not let the words get deep under his skin and paint him red, when he knew that Peter was being sincere with them? He couldn't stop the calm sweet reassurance from washing over him when he heard he was loved, and he didn't _want_ to stop it.

The world did start catching up to them as summer days drifted by, slowly but surely. At first, it was easier to keep his worries at bay, but by the time August arrived, Morse couldn’t ignore them anymore.

He woke up one morning with a worried _something_ in his chest, gnawing away at him and making him frown. Morse only let it show when it was safe enough, when he thought nobody would notice.

They still did. Hope was the first to do so, and even though she didn’t say anything (probably to avoid bothering him, though Morse almost wished she had), she tried to help him by giving him something to do. That’s how he ended up with Cheryl in his arms, almost throughout the entire morning. He appreciated the effort, but it didn’t exactly do anything to help him worry _less_. It only made Peter notice as well, and Morse got a few worried glances from him, too.

“It’s blazing hot today”, Hope said, after they were done with breakfast and Peter and Morse were leaving for the stables. She was trying to keep Cheryl from knocking over her coffee cup as she sat on the floor, her back against the sofa. She had the day’s _Star-Tribune_ open in front of her, along with a worn-out copy of some science-fiction book. _The Moon Is a Harsh Mistress._ Poetic title, sure, but probably not Morse’s cup of tea. Unsurprisingly, he was more about the classics.

“Try to keep a clear head out on the fields. Hats on”, Hope said, when she caught Morse staring. Morse smiled a bit at that, just a small tug at the corner of his mouth, and it made Hope smile as well.

“Will do”, Peter said.

Hope got up from the floor, taking the cup with her just in case, and they got their goodbye kisses. Peter’s was the hungry sort they both usually got, where Hope didn’t bother hiding what she thought of him, but the one she gave Morse this time was so calm and sweet and reassuring that it made his heart ache. She held on to him after that for a bit longer than was entirely necessary, her hand pressed on his chest over his heart, gentle concern flashing in her dark eyes.

“Talk to him”, Hope said, so quietly that only Morse could hear her. “Please.”

Morse stared at her for a second before managing to get his mouth open.

“I'll try”, he mouthed. Hope nodded - apparently, even though it wasn’t much, it was enough to make her worry a bit less.

The motions of getting the horses ready for the day were familiar to Morse by now, and he managed to saddle Sally almost entirely on his own. Unfortunately, talking about his worries wasn’t as easy, and it wasn’t until they were leading the horses out of the stable that he managed to open his mouth.

“Peter”, Morse said. It was an awkward way to begin the conversation to say the least, or at least it felt like it was, with how his voice almost cracked when he said the name, but he didn’t know how else to start. Peter looked over at him, not stopping, but slowing down considerably. Flash wasn’t very pleased with that, almost poking at Peter with his nose to let him know he wasn’t going to stand around all day, he was going to get moving, and it didn’t matter whether there was a rider on his back or not.

“Yeah?” Peter asked, rubbing Flash’s neck to calm him down. Morse frowned.

“I just… it’s August”, Morse said. Peter tilted his head, not quite understanding.

“I’m not going to be here forever”, Morse said.

The look on Peter’s face turned softer, a little wistful, even. He lifted his free hand to rub at the back of his neck.

“I know”, Peter said. “Is there something you’d like to do? We could drive to Laramie if you wanted to have a look around, I’d be happy to -”

“That’s not what I meant”, Morse said. “I was just thinking about… what’s going to become. Of us. After I go.”

Peter let out a long sigh. Morse didn’t know if he should apologise for bringing it up - perhaps, he didn’t want to dampen such a sunny day with his moodiness, though it sometimes seemed to be inevitable, with him - and besides, he didn’t have time to, before Peter spoke again.

“You’ll have to write us”, Peter said. “As often as you can. I’ll write to you, too, if you -”

“You know I’m no good with letters”, Morse said. It stung to say that, but it was the bitter truth. Once people were gone, they were gone, and he wasn’t particularly good at holding on, even though he always desperately wanted to. That was probably one of the biggest reasons for his poor, aching heart - he just didn’t manage. Talking to people face-to-face was difficult enough on its own, but putting his thoughts on paper and sending them halfway across the world never seemed to work, either. He just didn’t know what to say.

“Still. We’d appreciate anything”, Peter said. “Doesn’t matter if it comes a month or a year after you’re back. It’s good to know you’re doing alright, whatever it is you’re doing.”

Morse responded with a silent nod. He stopped in his tracks, shifting his weight from one foot to another. When that wasn’t enough to make standing around less awkward, he adjusted the brim of his stetson.

“Do you need help getting on Sally?” Peter asked. Morse let out an almost-offended huff. The look on Peter’s face wasn’t _judging_ , but still at least a bit amused. It was fair enough, since Morse hadn’t exactly been subtle about his hesitancy to mount his horse, but he was still a bit embarrassed at having to be lifted around like that. After all, he'd been a part-time cowboy for quite some time now.

“I’d appreciate it, yes”, Morse said. “If you’d be so kind.”

Peter was, though Morse wondered whether it was mere _kindness_ that led to him running a rough hand over his thigh and bloody grabbing his arse after he’d first offered his arms to help Morse climb up.

He got on his own horse without incident, and then they were off. Morse still wasn’t completely comfortable with Sally’s gait, not even after so many weeks of riding almost every day, but at least he knew he was capable of hanging on even when they picked up speed. And the horse actually listened to him, sometimes, though it mostly just seemed to follow Flash wherever he went.

The fields were the same as ever as they rode past them, grass and wheat and barley swaying in the wind that was too gentle and warm to actually be of any relief in the scorching heat. Morse found himself sweating under his hat quite a lot, and at that moment, he realised he was very fortunate not to be a full-time cowboy. Granted, it wasn’t the first time he thought that, but _still_. Maybe it got easier to bear with time, since Peter didn’t seem to have too much trouble. Or then he was just better at hiding it.

Morse managed to keep his mouth shut about the matter for quite a while, but eventually, he had to ride up to Peter. He took his hat off for a moment, fanning himself with it to no avail. (Peter did seem impressed at how Morse managed to let go of the reins with one hand, and honestly, it was a pretty impressive feat - he’d still been hanging onto them for dear life not too many weeks ago.)

“How do you manage?” Morse asked, after putting his hat back on and doing his best to get his hair out of his eyes. “With the heat.”

Peter seemed to think for a moment, not stopping, but patting at Flash to tell him to slow down a bit. His gait became more of a speedy saunter after that, and Sally followed. It was hardly very efficient cowboying, but Morse supposed that Peter was more about the dramatic effect, anyway. He’d always been.

“You could always take off your shirt”, Peter said. “If you’re getting hot.”

Morse scoffed at that, giving Peter a disbelieving smile. Peter answered that with a far more suggestive smirk of his own.

“I didn’t know modelling half-nude was part of the job description when I asked to help you out for the summer”, Morse said. He probably _should’ve_ , knowing Peter, but even after everything they’d done during the past few months, Morse hadn’t thought Peter would have the audacity. Guess even he had to be proven wrong every once in a while.

“No, no, it’s not about that”, Peter said. Morse held his breath as Peter urged Flash closer, until their horses were standing practically side to side.

“It isn’t?” Morse asked, deadpan. Peter nodded.

“People are awfully concerned with modesty in here, Morse. Propriety”, Peter said. Morse raised an eyebrow. Way to go, Peter, breaking out the uncharacteristically big words in a situation like this. It was getting terribly hard for Morse to hold back his smile.

“It’s not the Bible Belt, but it’s still pretty religious. I can’t have you riding around in a soaked-through white shirt like that”, Peter said. As if to prove his words, he let go of the reins with one hand to stroke Morse’s stomach, then his chest, feeling him up. The touch made Morse’s face burn.

“You might as well be wearing nothing at all”, Peter said, leaning so close that Morse could feel him breathe against his cheek. Peter’s lips were _so close_ , yet so bloody far away that it made Morse swallow hard. “So it’s better if you just take it off. Less explicit. You’ll still have the vest.“

Morse rolled his eyes, but it was hard to deny that Peter was making that offer sound like something _actually worth considering_ , even though it had initially seemed like a joke that Morse wouldn’t be terribly eager to put into practice in a million years. He _liked_ the attention, liked the way Peter was looking at him through his impossibly dark lashes, his red little mouth curved into a smirk.

“Christ, Peter. I can’t believe I’m going along with you on this”, Morse said, when he’d undone the buttons and slipped his shirt off his shoulders. He’d known it was worth it the instant he’d done it, because suddenly it was _Peter_ who was getting hotter under his collar than he cared to admit. That was what you got when you bit off more than you could chew. Peter cleared his throat.

“Well, I’m grateful you -” Peter started, but couldn’t finish before Morse had leaned as close as he could manage - it was a tad terrifying, but at this point, he trusted Sally not to take any side-steps - and kissed him, long and deep. They were both terribly sweaty by now, and Peter’s lips and skin tasted of salt, but the way he got very reluctant to let go of Morse was as sweet as ever.

(Even though he kept it hidden, Morse got a good laugh out of how stiff and red Peter got when they’d pulled apart and Morse pretended to ride off, forcing him to chase after him. At least that sped things up a bit, and they managed to actually get to the cows before the heat got too unbearable.)

They made it back an hour later, not particularly up for any more of the scorching heat than was necessary. It seemed like Peter wasn’t able to stop staring at him for a bloody second as they worked - or well, did what they always did, wandered almost-usefully around the fields with Peter getting off Flash every once in a while to actually do something worthwhile and sometimes motioning Morse to help out - and to his surprise, Morse found a smug smile making its way to his face. It must’ve been Peter’s smirks rubbing off on him.

Peter looked awfully thoughtful, and Morse very quickly found out why when they’d led the horses back to the stables. Once Peter’s hands were free (and they weren’t standing at the feet of a rather tall ranch horse), he grabbed Morse and shoved him against a wall. _Oh_. Alright.

“It’s bloody hot out here”, Peter said, his hands creeping under the hem of Morse’s vest, the fabric almost soaked-through. He let out a self-satisfied sigh as he managed to press his palms against Morse’s stomach for a second, before continuing upwards.

“You’re not exactly helping”, Morse remarked dryly. Peter leaned in to whisper in his ear.

“I know”, Peter said. “We both need a shower. But it’s terribly dry this time of the year, in this part of the country. Can’t use up too much water.”

 _Wo’e’,_ it sounded like, and the way Peter somehow pronounced that _carefully_ made the hairs on the back of Morse’s neck stand up. It was the one of the stupidest ways Morse had ever been seduced in his _life_ , and it was working.

They walked through the haze that the sun had turned the lawn between the stables and the house into, and Morse couldn’t help but smile at how close Peter was to him. He’d lit a cigarette again, to smoke one more when he had the chance, but his other hand was free. He brushed it against Morse’s too gently for it to be accidental - once, then a second time, and he didn’t have time for a third before Morse just grabbed his hand and held on to it.

They could do it. It was sappy and cheesy, and it would’ve been dangerous if they hadn’t been in the middle of nowhere, but it felt _wonderful_. The ranch was safe, and so was Peter, and Morse had found himself trusting Hope, too.

Not that she’d ever given him a reason to be wary of her, but now that they actually knew each other, _clearly liked_ each other, he found himself at a peace he really hadn’t come across in a good while. Peter would’ve been enough, having a chance to be with Peter for the summer and catch a glimpse of a life Morse might’ve lived in a different world, but admittedly, Morse had started to quite like the feeling of waking up with lipstick on his neck every morning.

At least he could be sure that Hope would be there for Peter no matter what. They were all so bloody lucky, Hope and Peter for having ended up together by practically sheer chance, Morse for having been granted that summer. The fields and the trees and the open sky, and the way he’d fit into Peter and Hope’s life like he’d been there much longer than he actually had.

They had love. That felt right.

 

Hope was still in the sitting room with Cheryl, but she’d switched the morning paper and the sci-fi book for something else.

There _was_ a hefty-looking tome on the sofa behind her, probably going a lot deeper into example cases and studies and theories than any of their police law books ever had, but it had had to make way for a small, bright-coloured book. There was a horse on the cover, and it seemed like there were more pictures than words in it, but Morse was pretty sure Hope was making up her own stories half the time, anyway. Cheryl wasn’t complaining, instead listening carefully and offering incomprehensible feedback every now and then.

“We’re taking a shower”, Peter said, when they walked past the sitting room. Hope turned to look at them, saw how red Morse’s face was, and rolled her eyes without pausing her story, even though she looked like she was about to start shaking with held-back laughter.

She seemed glad to see Morse a lot more relaxed than he’d been that morning, and Morse made sure to give her a reassuring smile to make sure she knew everything was alright now. Hope returned it with a kind, soft one of her own, before Peter urged Morse to move along with a _very_ unsubtle hand brushing against his hip. Alright, then, bloody alright. It was already hard enough to think without Peter making it worse, with how hot the day was.

The bathroom wasn’t terribly big, and when the door had closed behind them, there really wasn’t any space to stay apart. Not that either of them wanted to - Morse opened his arms, and Peter promptly crashed into him, pushing him against the wall in a spot where he didn’t have a towel-hook digging into his back. His hair was sticking to his forehead, the way he was dripping with sweat probably not terribly appealing, but Peter still kissed him, on his lips and jaw and cheeks. Morse let his hands slide down Peter’s back.

“Morse”, Peter muttered against his neck, after they’d got Morse out of his vest. Peter’s shirt was already open as well, the warmth of his chest terribly close, and Morse was getting almost uncomfortably hot. It was _good_.

“Yes?” Morse asked, though what came out of his mouth was more of a breath than a word. Peter smiled, and Morse shoved his fingers through his belt-loops and _yanked_ , getting a gasp out of him as their hips brushed together. He felt Peter tense up against him, bloody half-hard. It really didn’t take that much, did it.

“I love you”, Peter said, smoothing a hand over his hip, looking at him through his dark lashes. “And I want you inside me, now.”

Morse stopped what he was doing, looking at Peter with his eyes wide. He _definitely_ hadn’t been expecting _that_ sort of hushed command, but thinking about it in any more detail than what Peter had just said out loud quickly made his trousers a good deal tighter than they’d felt a second before. Peter cleared his throat, face coloured a faint red. Morse was pretty sure he was blushing too, at least from the heat if not anything else, but it didn’t make the smile that spread on his face any less smug.

“You really do”, Morse said, eyebrows climbing high. “Look at that.”

He didn’t have time to tease Peter any further, as Peter shoved a hand down the front of Morse’s trousers. Things progressed rather quickly from that, with Peter yanking their belts open and Morse doing away with Peter’s shirt, and it only took a minute before Morse had Peter against the wall, panting out his name.

It was very _different_ from what they usually did, but that didn't make the feeling of Peter going all tense and taut against him any less amazing. He was beautiful when he gave in, and it was very easy for Morse to forget everything except how sweet Peter felt around him, how he moaned and grunted and muttered incoherent praise in Morse's ear when he did things right. It was slow and gentle, even if the place they'd picked was pretty much anything but traditionally romantic, and even though it was far from the first time that summer that they'd _made love_ instead of just shagging, it made them both all warm and tender afterwards.

Eventually, they had to turn on the water, when they were finally sure they could focus on actually getting cleaned up. Cooling down a bit at last was a relief, honestly, and even though Morse pretended to be reluctant at first when Peter offered to wash his hair for him, the careful hands on his scalp felt like heaven. He returned the favour, of course, and the way Peter relaxed back against his touch made him smile.

/ / /

“There you are”, Hope said, at the sofa again. Cheryl was in her lap, and Hope seemed very determined not to let her pull at her hair. It seemed like somewhat of a struggle, because Cheryl was just as determined to do so.

“I was starting to get worried about the water bill”, Hope said.

“No, no. I can assure you Peter was very considerate about it”, Morse said. That made Hope smile, and it was easy to join in.

Morse walked over to the sofa and sat next to them. Before he realised what was going on, Hope had leaned in and pressed a quick kiss on his cheek. It made him laugh softly. Alright, then.

“You smell good”, Hope said. Morse let out a huff - he should hope so, at the very least. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t enjoyed their shower (he _had_ ), but it all felt more proper when he could believe the main reason for it had been to get cleaned up. No ulterior motives at all.

“Well, at least it’s not horse”, Morse said, after a while.

“Hey, horse is just fine”, Hope said. “It’s the cows I have an issue with.”

Morse shrugged - she probably knew best, having lived around both for such a long time. Hope smiled at how perplexed he must’ve looked, and leaned in to kiss him again, this time on the corner of his mouth. He responded by lifting a hand to her cheek.

They were interrupted by Cheryl letting out a displeased babble. Hope pulled back and looked sheepish for a moment.

“Peter’s still getting dressed”, Morse said, to fill in the silence. “Said I was distracting him.”

“You _were_ ”, a voice said, from the doorway. Morse looked up, and saw Peter, hair almost dry, wearing -

“Oh my God, Peter”, Morse said. _You too_.

He didn’t know if he was embarrassed or _extremely_ flattered, but it certainly made his heart beat faster to see _his shirt on Peter_. It fit alright - of course it did, since Morse had once borrowed one of Peter’s, a long time ago - but the style was certainly something quite different than what he was used to seeing on Peter. Loose and soft and rather laid-back, nothing like the sharp, tight lines that even his more casual clothes often had, to match his sharp features.

“Damn”, Hope said. Morse turned to look at her, honestly a bit shocked, and she let out a giggle.

Peter walked over to them, sitting down with a slight flinch. That made Hope’s eyebrows climb high, but she didn’t say anything, just looked at Morse, fascinated. It was one of those moments where it seemed really clear that Hope was one of those curious university types.

“Hold her for me, will you?” Hope asked. It took Morse a while to realise she meant him.

“Sure”, Morse said.

Hope handed Cheryl to him - the girl seemed alright with it, already excitedly going for Morse’s sleeves and collar like she always did, bloody hell - and then turned over to Peter. Peter looked at her curiously, and she buried her fingers in his hair. It was very soft in times like this (Morse had confirmed it himself just a couple of minutes ago), so he couldn’t exactly blame her.

Peter lifted one hand to Hope’s shoulder, but reached over her with the other. Morse had to stare for a moment before taking it into his own, still using his other hand to keep Cheryl from rolling over to the floor. She was quite a handful, sometimes.

“Gotta tell you, Pete, I never knew you could make that sort of sound before”, Hope said, stroking Peter’s hair. It was probably feather-soft against his fingers - Morse had confirmed as much himself several times, and the dark curls _still_ filled him with wonder. Peter cleared his throat.

“I didn’t know myself”, Peter said. “But to be fair, I didn’t really listen. Had something else in mind at the moment.”

“Well, then we need to find ways to make it happen again. Good that Morse’s going to be here for two more weeks”, Hope said, kissing Peter on the cheek before leaning over him to do the same to Morse. The brush of her soft lips against his skin made his heart skip a beat.

“Yeah. Riding is real hard to learn without proper practice”, Peter said. “Morse needs to give me some examples, though. He’s gotten pretty good over the summer.”

Morse let out an exasperated snort at the _very innocent suggestions_ Peter was making while his dark, thick eyebrows were quirked in a _very innocently suggestive way_. He had to resist the urge to bury his face in his hands, and it was easier than he thought - he didn’t have any hands he could’ve used for that, as they were too occupied at the moment, with Peter stroking his palm and Cheryl trying to climb over his shoulder. Bloody mountaineer, that girl. The way she kept pulling at his collar made him smile anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from John Denver's "Take Me Home, Country Roads" because it's beautifully sappy.
> 
> We're nearing the end. Thank you so much for sticking along for this long <3 As always, comments are appreciated!


	20. Life's Not What You Make It

_Late August, 1968_

 

Morse knew before opening his eyes that this was it. He didn’t need Peter’s gentle hand shaking him awake to know, but he was glad for it, honestly. He’d take anything they had time for.

“Morse, love”, Peter whispered, and there was a soft kiss on his forehead. “Wake up.”

Morse blinked slowly, and the first thing he saw when his eyelids fluttered open was Peter, smiling through a wistful look in his eyes. Morse wrapped his arms around Peter’s shoulders, pulling him down to kiss him.

“Let’s not think about it”, Morse said. “Please.”

“Alright”, Peter said. “But you need to get up. It’s seven o’clock. We need to leave by eight.”

The way Peter walked him to the kitchen, practically connected to him at the hip with one arm around his shoulders and the other at his waist, was almost as if he was supporting Morse through some injury. It wasn’t anything grievous or unhealed, it was just the fact that Morse was _leaving_ , going back to Oxford today.

“Morning, Hope”, Morse said softly. She was leaning against the kitchen counter, coffee cup in hand as usual.

“Good morning”, she said. “Everything packed up?”

“Yeah”, Morse said. “All set.”

Peter kissed Morse just under his jaw one more time before letting go of him to let Hope have a turn. She opted for standing on her tiptoes and pressing her lips against Morse’s cheek, then running a hand down the side of his neck and to his shoulder.

“Grab some toast”, Hope said. “Or whatever you’d like. Morse, I made you a sandwich for the flight. Two, actually. Eat one before you reach Denver, alright? The bigger one’s for going over the Atlantic. Should stay edible for the whole ten hours before you’re there.”

“Alright”, Morse said, knowing better than to protest by now. If Hope thought he could use some mothering, he could take it, for just that last day. And it would certainly make him feel better, to actually try to get something down during the flight that wasn’t liquor.

“Thank you”, Morse said. Peter looked at him, all too surprised at the fact he’d said that, which made Morse let out an amused huff. It wasn’t as if he _always_ had trouble with thank-yous. Just… most of the time.

“You’re welcome, sweetheart”, Hope said.

Morse and Peter had their breakfast quite a bit slower than usual, because Peter insisted on holding his hand through a lot of it, or at least sneaking in as many gentle touches as he could. It was a tad ridiculous, but Morse wasn’t about to start complaining. He didn’t know when they’d have the chance again.

They had to stop it when they heard a car pull up on the yard, then a knock at the door. Hope went to open the door, and came back a couple minutes later with a woman who looked quite a lot like her. A bit taller and with slightly different features, her hair in a ponytail. The resemblance was definitely there, though.

“Cheryl’s still asleep, thank god”, Hope said over her shoulder as they came to the kitchen. “But she’ll probably wake up soon. There’s a couple bottles in the freezer that you can warm up, but you should try giving her some mashed fruit too, we’ve been doing it for a month now. And you should -”

“Hope, I do know how to take care of kids”, the other woman said as she stepped into the room after Hope. “I even have proof. Stop fussing.”

The next words she might’ve been about to say died on her lips when she caught sight of Morse. Morse tried his best to give her an almost-smile. The way Peter was sneaking a hand on his thigh under the tablecloth wasn’t helping, and Morse almost snickered out loud at the _guts_ he had. Bloody hell.

“Oh, right”, Hope said, as if introducing them had come to her as an afterthought. “Faith, this is Morse. He’s been a great help. Morse, this is my sister Faith. She promised to watch Cheryl for us while we get you to the airport.”

“Nice to meet you”, Morse said, getting up (and trying to ignore the way Peter couldn’t keep his eyes off his arse, _even now_ ) to shake her hand. Faith offered hers eagerly, looking Morse up and down with curiosity. Morse was glad she hadn’t decided to pop in for a visit earlier on - she seemed awfully nosy, and he probably wouldn’t have been able to keep himself together like this for a long time. But she seemed nice enough, with a warm smile that reminded him of Hope quite a lot.

/ / /

They were in the car at a quarter to eight. Morse had hugged Cheryl goodbye (like Hope had predicted, she’d woken up pretty quickly when she realised there were people moving about the house) and after that, he’d taken one more look around the house to make sure he had all his things with him.

Peter had insisted on swapping one shirt with him, though. The one Peter gave him wasn’t the one Morse had bled on so long ago, but it could’ve been, as pretty much all Peter’s nicer shirts looked alike to Morse. He still didn’t believe why Peter would like to trade something almost _luxurious_ like that for one of Morse’s shabbier, not-as-nice ones, but he couldn’t exactly blame him for the sappiness, either. The shirt still smelled of Peter, and if the scent didn’t fade while carefully tucked into his bag with all his other clothes, it would probably stay there for a while. Morse treasured the thought, overly romantic as it was.

The flat, dry landscape was familiar to Morse by now, and he could even remember some of the route from the countless times they’d gone to town to pick up groceries, and of course, the initial ride from the airport. As they got further away from the farm, however, things started looking different. Even the shadows of the faraway mountains seemed to shift and change, the new angle making their shapes something entirely different.

They’d taken the truck, and Morse was grateful for it, mostly because you could fit three people on the front seat rather comfortably. It was a bit snug, but all the better for it.

Hope was driving. It was probably for the best - even though Peter had proved he was at least _capable_ of driving a truck on the right side of the road, Hope was a lot more comfortable with the big, chunky sort of car that the Toyota was. It also gave Morse the opportunity of resting his head on Peter’s shoulder, and Peter could wrap his arms around him and hold him close. Morse felt safe there, sitting in the middle, and he almost found himself falling asleep again at the sound and feel of Peter’s steady breathing.

“At least we’re not listening to country this time”, Morse muttered. The low hum of the car engine was a much nicer sound, even if even that became a bit grating at times.

“We could, if you really want to”, Hope said. “I hear they’ve been playing Glen Campbell’s new-ish album for the last week. Faith says it drives her mother-in-law crazy.”

“I have no idea who Glen Campbell is”, Morse said. “And I have no particular desire to find out.”

“ _Called me baby, baby all night long. Used to hold and kiss me till the dawn_ ”, Peter said, putting on a truly horrible country drawl. Morse scoffed at that, but kissed Peter on the cheek anyway, when he turned to look at Morse with a heartbreakingly beautiful smile on his face.

“Can’t say I’ve ever had anything like that quoted at me before”, Morse said, stroking his fingers along the back of Peter’s hand. Peter leaned in to press his forehead against Morse’s, and somehow, it made him blush worse than any other touch could’ve.

Peter did kiss him, too, with warm soft lips sealed against his. It sent a warm shiver down Morse’s spine, and when he opened his eyes again and felt Peter’s cheek brush against his own, he couldn’t help but smile.

“That’s because you’re usually the one doing the quoting”, Peter said. “It’s not like anybody else has time to read all those -”

“Hope’s read _King Lear_ ”, Morse said. “And she hasn’t studied literature for a day in her life.”

“Hey, I was in a book club when I was eight”, Hope said. “I analyzed _The Little White Horse_ extensively in one of our meetings. I said it’s better than _Black Beauty_ because Periwinkle is a pony.”

“... fair enough”, Morse said. Hope grinned, not taking her hands off the wheel, but looking like she would’ve liked to give him a peck on the cheek. Luckily, Peter did that for her.

Eventually, the journey had to come to its end, and before Morse knew it, they were on the edge of the suburbs of Laramie. (The city was so small that even the centre looked a lot like one of the smaller villages in Oxfordshire, but Morse was used to it at this point.)

“We’ll be there soon”, Hope said. Morse looked out the window to make sure it was true, that there was no going back. It _was_ , and he was rather worried again all of a sudden. Peter seemed to sense it, pulling Morse even closer, holding onto him tighter.

“Pull over”, Peter said. “Do you think the airport parking lot’s alright?”

“Better safe than sorry”, Hope said. “There’s less traffic if we’re still a bit further away. And I’ve a feeling what we’re about to do is something we oughtn’t be doing in plain sight.”

So a quieter spot between a run-down convenience store and a cargo hall it was, in a place where it didn’t look they were stranded an in need of help, but not overly suspicious, either. Just stopping for a moment to look at a map or have a smoke or do something else that was perfectly proper and ordinary.

Hope turned off the engine, and the moment she could take her hands off the wheel, she put them on Morse, gently rubbing his back. Peter helped him climb in his lap, and Morse put his hands on his shoulders without much hesitation. They’d settled into a routine at this point, comfortable with three pairs of hands and the tangle of limbs that often ensued, and Morse let out a long breath as he relaxed against Peter’s chest.

“You’ll be just fine, Morse, luv”, Peter said. Morse looked up at him, his dark lashes and his face which wasn’t quite pale anymore, and leaned in for a proper kiss.

It was hungry and desperate, and laced with ash as always, and Morse didn’t want to ever let go. He let Peter hold on to his cheeks and keep him close, clumsily moving his hands down Peter’s back.

And then it was over, once, and then it wasn’t over anymore. Morse pulled back only to press his lips on Peter’s again, and he couldn’t help but think that had any of them been wearing lipstick, it would’ve got all over their faces at this point.

“Alright“, Peter breathed out, against Morse’s face. “Alright.”

“God, Peter”, Morse said. “Just… _God_.”

“Morse”, Hope said, smiling at him from behind the wheel, and Morse barely had time to turn his head before she was kissing him.

It wasn’t clumsily passionate and caring like Peter’s had been, but sweet-rough, with enough heat behind it to make Morse blush again. It was a bit quicker, too, but Morse didn’t mind all that much.

It was nine-thirty already, so they had to stop stalling and actually drive to the airport. They did stop by a small store, as Hope insisted on buying Morse some nuts and crackers.

“Just in case”, Hope said. “If you’re planning on drinking like a sponge, at least eat something to soak it up first.”

Morse let out a vaguely hesitant grumble at that - for God’s sake, he already had the sandwiches - but after Peter let him know he wanted Morse out of his wits as little as Hope did, with a sharp furrow of his eyebrows, he complied.

Apparently, Morse’s was the only commercial flight to be leaving the airport this morning. That meant the check-in and the procedures surrounding it wouldn’t take long, but it also meant that the plane wouldn’t wait.

They walked through the one-room terminal, and Morse checked in with the lady at the desk. He was informed that the plane to Denver wasn’t particularly full this time, and he was rather unsurprised at that.

“Well. Thank you for everything”, Morse said, as they were lounging about the room, not quite sure on how they should proceed.

“You’re welcome”, Hope said. “It was a pleasure to have you over.”

Morse would’ve probably said something to that, had Hope not leaned in to kiss him hard, making him yelp in surprise rather loudly. The older woman standing in line for the check-in desk looked over, not suspicious of them, but amused. Must’ve assumed Morse was the one who was married to Hope, then. Fair enough.

“It’s from us both”, Hope whispered, lips tickling his ear, before letting go of him and stepping back. “Have a safe flight, Morse.”

Morse turned to look at Peter, who’d shoved his hands in his pockets.

“I guess this is goodbye, then”, Peter said.

“You know I hate goodbyes, right?” Morse asked, but let Peter step closer and hug him tight.

He breathed Peter in one more time, one _last_ time, probably, and let himself drift away to some - _all_ \- of the summer days they’d got to spend together. It made him feel like his heart was going to burst, and in all honesty, Morse wouldn’t have minded all that much. At least if it would’ve meant he could stay in that moment forever.

“I do know”, Peter said, leaning in closer to whisper in his ear. One of his hands had trailed down, and he was pretty firmly holding on to Morse’s hand. “So how about we make this an _I love you_ instead?”

“I’d rather like that”, Morse said. So Peter lifted a hand to his cheek, tilting his head gently to get Morse’s eyes to meet his green-blue ones.

“Morse”, Peter said. “Don’t let the world wear you down, alright? You’ve got a good heart. Keep it beating, and remember that I love you. So bloody much, Morse.”

“I’ll try”, Morse said, his voice breaking. " _Peter_. It’s terribly -”

“Shh, luv, I know it’s hard”, Peter said. “But I know you’re not one to turn down a challenge.”

Peter’s lips touched his, for the briefest moment, so quick that it was almost something you couldn’t see, only feel. A plea and a reminder. Morse felt it and took it to heart, and that was enough.

“I love you too”, Morse whispered. “Peter. _Thank you_.”

“You’re good, Morse”, Peter said softly. “You’re so good.”

Peter let go of him, patting his shoulder one more time. Morse knew he had to go now, or he’d never do it.

He picked up his bags, gave both Peter and Hope one more nod, and made his way towards the door to the hallway that led to the security check area.

Morse turned to look back one more time before turning around the corner, just in case, to make sure they’d all be alright. Hope and Peter smiled and waved at him, Peter looking like he was about to burst into tears, and Morse turned his face away, giving them both a wave of his own before drawing in a breath and walking through the door.

He didn’t want Peter or Hope to see how much of a crying mess he himself became, the moment he knew that that was it, that he was truly going away now. Everything would be alright, in time, and he could do his best to write them a letter. Morse was terrible with words, but he could try. With enough determination, it could happen, if things turned out just right.

 

Or he could at least send them a postcard. Someday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from "Postcard" by First Aid Kit.
> 
> I'm so sorry for making this bittersweet! Please do yell at me in the comments. But don't worry if your heart is aching (mine sure is), there's still the epilogue... ;)


	21. Epilogue, I & II

_Late September, 1968_

Hope really shouldn’t have been so blind to what was going on. But it just happened that the first time she even thought of the possibility, she was on her knees on the bathroom floor. Fun.

She’d been achy and teary and tired for a couple of weeks already, but she’d dismissed it as just being really stressed out. As the harvest season kicked into full throttle, things got pretty hectic, even with her parents back from across the country. They all were out in the fields for hours on end, and it was kind of tiring, even though Hope did get a great amount of joy from watching her Pete trying to get the hang of operating a combine harvester.

He was getting there. That’s all she could say at this point.

“Everything okay, love?” Peter said, peeking in. He had dark shadows under his eyes, and for a moment, Hope actually felt bad for being the reason for waking him up, too. It didn’t take her long to change her mind, though, when she remembered what the original reason for her being up at that god-forsaken hour was.

“... depends on how you look at it”, Hope said, trying to keep her voice down - it was still really early, and everybody capable of staying in bed needed all the sleep they could get. Her throat felt hoarse. Peter looked at her, confused and a tad worried. As he should be.

“This is your fault, you know”, Hope muttered.

“Wait, you can’t possibly mean that -” Peter started.

“That’s exactly what I’m saying”, Hope said. Goddamnit.

After all the trouble she’d gone through to have Cheryl, she would’ve wished her body would’ve given her at least _some_ kind of break. But a no was a no, then.

“Jesus Christ. How long have you known?” Peter asked, rubbing his eyes. Hope scoffed at that.

“I don't know, maybe ten minutes. I have no idea how far along I am”, Hope said.

Peter let out a long sigh. Neither of them had really even considered the possibility of this happening again so soon. They weren't prepared, but they'd have to make do.

“We’re gonna have to call Dr. Miller and book an appointment, to make sure everything’s alright”, Hope said, pushing herself up from the floor. She wasn’t feeling as sick anymore, but she’d spent so long crouching down that her legs felt stiff.

It would probably take all day to get to Laramie and back, and it would take several _months_ before Hope would be feeling alright again, and all because Peter wouldn’t stop casually touching her and giving her unnecessarily intense and appreciative looks and _seducing_ her all the time. He was impossible in that regard, always had been.

(Given the reason they'd gotten married, Hope probably should've expected that.)

“I’ll drive you there tomorrow”, Peter said, rubbing his neck and looking a bit uncomfortable. “It’s the least I can do.”

“Damn right it is”, Hope snapped, but still gave Peter a small smile when he raised his hands in a helpless apology. He took a step forward to cup her cheek.

“I’ll take you to dinner while we’re there. We can go dancing after”, Peter said, stroking her face gently. Hope leaned against his palm, breathing in the smell of smoke.

For God’s sake, it wasn’t even five in the morning, and Peter had already smoked a cig. That chimney of a man was probably unable to stay awake otherwise.

“Your old man won’t mind it if he doesn’t get to know”, Peter added.

Hope couldn’t disagree with that. Maybe her parents would manage one full day of work without them, especially if they were promised another grandchild in return. Oh joy.

/ / /

_Brooklyn, New York City, 2012_

“Dad wasn’t my biological dad, was he?” Dawn asked, fiddling nervously with the pencil in her hand. She had the Times open on the dinner table - talking on the phone was stressful enough, but talking about something like _this_ made her even more nervous. She needed something to do during it, and filling out the sudoku of the day was more than sufficient.

“What do you mean?” Mom answered, her voice tired and worried through the phone. Dawn could practically hear her leaning her head against her hand. Wyoming was two hours behind NY, so it wasn’t that late there yet, even though darkness was already falling over Long Island. Then again, Dawn didn’t know whether there was _ever_ a good time to call and talk about something like this, but _she had to know_.

“I was just looking at the DNA test results, I got them back last week. Mine don’t match Cheryl’s. It says it’s likely we’re cousins or half-sisters”, Dawn said. She didn’t know about David’s results yet, since her little brother hadn’t initially been particularly interested in doing the test. But Cheryl had insisted, and she’d ended up paying for them all.

Dawn didn’t know whether to call it dedication to her field or just plain stubbornness. Cheryl hadn’t been able to dig up anything when looking into their dad’s family, as it wasn’t exactly easy to get their hands on old records somewhere overseas, so she’d decided that the best course of action would be to try to look into their genes instead. None of them had really considered that taking a test like that might bring some unnerving information with it.

“Well, it happens sometimes”, Mom said, finally breaking the silence. “Are you sure -”

“I already called Cheryl, she knows how genetics work”, Dawn said. Her sister didn’t really specialize in people, but cows instead, but she was a biologist regardless.

“Could you just… I just want to know the truth. Was Dad, _Peter Jakes_ , my biological father?” Dawn asked.

It was silent on the other end of the line for a long while, and Dawn couldn’t resist tapping her fingers against the table. She should’ve poured herself a glass of… well, _anything_. She’d been sober for over ten years now, but it wasn’t every day that she had to deal with something like _this_.

“No, I’m pretty sure he wasn’t”, Mom said. Dawn drew in a long breath. At this point, it wasn’t a surprise, but hearing that out loud like a confession of some kind still stung.

She wished Dad was still alive. The conversation would've been terribly awkward for _sure_ , but Dawn needed some sort of closure. She’d never get a chance to ask him. He'd been dead for over five years.

“Who was it, then?” Dawn asked. She had a million other questions running through her mind, too - why Mom would do such a thing, why nobody had ever told her, why he hadn’t ever bothered to visit, whoever it was - but she was afraid Mom wouldn’t be able to handle so many questions at once, so she kept quiet.

“Someone your dad loved very much”, Mom said quietly. Dawn furrowed her brows.

“A man?”

Not that it was something completely unheard of, but she just hadn’t thought of it before. (Well, she guessed that nobody really _wanted_ to think about their parents’ romantic lives. It squicked her out.)

“Oh, come on. It was the sixties, not Victorian times. Love was free”, Mom said. “He was visiting for the summer, and we three -”

“No, no, I really don’t need to hear the specifics, thank you”, Dawn said. A _threesome_ , really. She was kind of regretting the whole call now.

“Who is he?” Dawn asked.

“A man your dad worked with in Oxford. A detective, I mean. Morse”, Mom said, not stopping in the middle to breathe. She probably just wanted to get the words out as fast as she could.

“Morse?” Dawn asked. That raised more questions than it answered.

“His last name. We have a photo of him with your dad somewhere, I think, from the summer when… well, yeah. We made him wear a stetson”, Mom said, snorting at the memory.

“What about his first name?” Dawn said, ignoring everything else for now. Otherwise it would’ve soon become too much to handle.

“I think it was… he didn’t really use it much”, Mom said, and paused to think for a moment.

“Oh my God. _Endeavour_ ”, she finally said. Judging by the tone of her voice, she was probably shaking her head at the memory, but still smiling.

“... _what_?” Dawn asked.

“A Quaker name, I believe. You’re lucky you were born a girl. Otherwise we might’ve named you after him”, her mom said, laughing nervously.

“Right”, Dawn said, dumbfounded.

She _had_ sometimes wondered why she got freckles every summer while nobody else in her family did, and why her hair was so light and red, but it had been easy to believe when her parents had said it must’ve come from some British great-grandmother. Turns out it had been all a lie.

“Oh my god, Mom”, Dawn said. She almost wished she had a headache, because even though she didn’t have one, she felt like she should’ve at this point.

“Next thing you’re gonna tell me he was really into sudokus or some crap”, she muttered, scribbling a small, angry pile of lines to the newspaper page she had open.

“Well, not that I know of, but Pete never did want you to have those… crypto-crosswords”, Mom said. “You know, the British kind.”

“Jesus Christ, Mom, I wasn’t being _serious_ ”, Dawn said, just a little bit hysterical. She was about to throw the pencil in her hand across the room. “You’re saying that a guy named _Morse,_ my biological dad, is some damn code-breaker to top everything else off, and _that’s why I’ve always liked_ -”

“Well, he might’ve been, now that I think of it”, Mom said. “Again, he was a detective. Would fit his line of work.”

Dawn struggled to breathe normally. She didn’t know whether to cry or laugh or laugh so hard she cried.

“You know this doesn’t change anything, right?” Mom asked, voice somewhat wary. “You’ve always been our daughter and always will be. We’ve never thought otherwise, not for a second.”

“I know. I want to call him”, Dawn said. She had no idea what to say to him, but she had to try. She wanted to _know._

“He died in 1999. Your dad went to England for the funeral, don’t you remember?” Mom asked.

Dawn didn’t, because _she really hadn’t known to think it important back then_. They had plenty of family friends, quite many of them overseas, and it wasn’t easy to keep track of them all. Especially ones she’d never met.

“You could probably call his work. I’m sure they’ll be able to tell you something about him, he was Inspector for quite a while. With the Thames Valley Police in Oxford. You should ask for Lewis”, Mom said.

Dawn wrote everything down on the side margins of the newspaper. When she was finished, she looked over the messy notes. She could look up her _father_ \- thinking it made her feel terribly out of place - before calling, but you really couldn’t find all that much information about older folks on the Internet. And it was probably the middle of the night in Britain right now.

“Thanks, Mom. Love you”, Dawn said, trying to contain the tired sigh she desperately wanted to let out.

“Love you too, honey. Call me again tomorrow, please, when you’ve got through it a bit, alright?” Mom asked. “Anytime is fine. I’ll be up before you anyway.”

After receiving a confirmation, she hung up.

Dawn stared numbly at the wall for a while before opening her laptop and starting to furiously type up a search. How in the bloody hell was she supposed to know the phone numbers of some police station all the way in Oxford? She’d have to call there first thing in the morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, I'd like to thank you so much for reading this. I started working on this mid-February, and it's been an amazing experience. This is the first project of this scope that I've ever finished!!!
> 
> Wow. It's been a JOURNEY. I love Morse and Jakes and what was supposed to be a silly brokeback mountain fix-it idea turned into a novel-length work. It's exactly what I needed after Arcadia, and now I can let my soul rest, knowing that this is technically very canon-compliant. XD
> 
> As I promised, there'll be some midquel smut to this fic, with Peter and Hope and Morse, just because. I'll just have to edit it a little, first.
> 
> I'm also excited to announce that there's going to be a fic where Dawn goes to Oxford for answers, provided by the lovely jasmiinitee when she has the time to edit and post it. (Poor Lewis really thought he'd finally got rid of Morse.)
> 
> I'm SO HYPED TO FINALLY SHARE ALL OF THIS WITH THE WORLD!!!! aaaAAAAAaaAA y'all NEED TO KNOW ABOUT DAWN JAKES
> 
> ++ Even though the "canon" of this fic ends up this way, with Morse never having known about his kid (because again, canon-compliance XD), we DO have a rather solid AU idea. In that, Peter manages to finally get Morse's new phone number and calls him in the late 80s, when the kids are in their teens, and starts playfully bitching off to him about child support, eventually convincing him to come visit (without initially telling the kids who he is...) The most awkward Thanksgiving dinner in Jakes family history ensues, but so do many heartfelt moments. It's beautiful, and some snippets of it already exist.
> 
> ((also I might've written porn about middle-aged people cos come on if they were reunited later in life they WOULD STILL SHAG EACH OTHER... send help XDDD))
> 
> Jasmiinitee and I have also been throwing around some ideas and snippets about the Jakes family, set between these two pieces of epilogue, because dad Peter is p r e c i o u s and he's doing his very best at taking care of his family.  
> Cheryl (born -68), Dawn (-69) and David (as late as -72, because Hope finally got tired of not getting to finish her thesis and got on contraceptives like a responsible person lmao) have all ended up evolving into characters of their own, and I love writing about siblings. There's a lot of really interesting things to explore in their child and teen years, with Peter being a dad.
> 
> However, the nearest thing for you to look forward to is a small fic where Peter and Hope realise that one of their kids is Morse's, too, set in 1973. I'm probably going to give people some time to recover from this marathon of a fic before posting it. I'll make sure to put it in a series with this one, and the Lewis fic will also be there, once it's posted.
> 
> Feel free to shout and scream and sob and melt into a puddle of joy over Morse in the comments. I'm certainly doing that right now. Oh my GOD. dasgj,hgfdsaSDFGHJK


End file.
